


The Shepherdess and Her Satyr

by cannibalisticshadows



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Curses, F/M, Fauns & Satyrs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nymphs & Dryads, Rating May Change, Sheep & Goats, The Enchanted Forest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10315037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalisticshadows/pseuds/cannibalisticshadows
Summary: The Meddler. The Piper. The Cradle-Snatcher. The list of nicknames goes on... Belle grew up on a healthy diet of fairytales, but not once did she imagine that someday she'd meethim.In other words, Belle the shepherdess finds an unlikely refuge in the home of Rumplestiltskin the satyr after chasing a runaway lamb into the forbidding woodlands beside her pasture.





	1. Shepherd

“Come by,” the shepherdess ordered her calico sheepdog, who in turn obediently rounded the clustering of chorally bleating sheep as they huddled and jostled together. The sheepdog flitted clockwise of the herd, stalking, yipping at waywardness to usher all the woolly animals into a huddle. Sheep clumsily galloped as their canine slave driver led them in the direction of its mistress’s guidance. 

A bright blue eyed young woman of twenty years led the drove with her crook in hand, wind blowing through her dark coppery tresses. Her dress hung snugly on her petite frame, the skirts ruffling as she walked amongst the flock to lead them across the pasture. She raised a right hand to shield her eyes from the late spring’s sun. _Brighter’n a witch out today_ , Belle mused to herself, sheep of varying different traits baaing loudly after her. 

Belle’s herd consisted of twenty sheep (and counting!). Most of them weren’t even the same breed. She had fourteen ewes: Queenie, Wicked, Snow, Emma, Ruby, Ella, Rapunzel, Ariel, Alice, Elsa, Anna, Aurora, Abigail, and Warrior. Then six rams: King, Charming, Hatter, Princely, Wolfie, and August. Queenie was the alpha ewe of the drove. King was technically the alpha ram, but Queenie reigned over the flock. And King. Emma and August were the only current lambs, but Ella and Alice were expecting. The two lambs kept close to their mother - Snow. They squealing cutely as they struggled to keep up, fluctuating between a trot and a gallop. Emma, a wanton blonde lamb, was Snow’s biological daughter, but August, a brownie-colored lamb with stunningly blue eyes, was a foundling Snow had taken to, fostered, and willingly nursed as if her own. 

And then there was Rose. Rose was Belle’s sheepdog. She was a beautiful bitch; white body, mottled with black and rosy-beige markings. She was the runt of the litter, and everyone turned their nose up at the tiny pup while everyone took to her brothers and sisters. Everyone but Belle. Belle’s closest neighbor – an elderly woman named Ruth – was too old to work anymore. Ruth's son, a fellow shepherd named David Belle only knew by word of mouth, had gone missing months ago, so it was just her and Wilby the sheepdog now. Belle was in need of a good herding mutt once she was given her first two sheep (courtesy of Her Majesty). No one would buy Wilby’s tiniest puppy, so Belle’s neighbor gave Rose to her happily. Rose, to Belle and Ruth's surprise, grew magnificently into a swift, smart, prize-winning sheepdog just like her father.

“Balance,” Belle said next, briskly walking toward better grazing patches near the edge of her fenced pasture. Rose herded the drove toward her mistress, legs splayed as she shadowed and steered. They footed at least a half-acre of brilliant, lush greenery with rolling, endless hills beyond the horizon, and looming, dense woodland boarding the southern corner. “Easy,” was the next response from the shepherdess, guiding them to a mildly cooler greensward nearest to the woods.

As a rule, Belle didn’t let her flock near the woodland area of her pasture. Wolves were no joke out here in the boonies, especially with pray animals like sheep. And again, Belle only had twenty sheep, two being lambs, another two big and pregnant. Most shepherds looked after flocks of _hundreds_ of sheep! Animals in bigger numbers are more intimidating to predators, Belle read once, so she made sure her flock was tucked up nice and safe in their pen when she or Rose wasn’t out with them. Her two acres of land were pretty intimidating to Belle at times, but her flock was always expanding in numbers. Especially since Queen Regina herself tasked Belle with animal husbandry. Belle was thrilled beyond words when Her Majesty took the girl in when she'd fled from home... All she had to do in return was be her royally appointed shepherdess. Which meant Belle’d be getting a bunch of random sheep in hopes of producing a worthy new breed. Or whatever the Queen meant. Her Majesty just told her that this plot of land was now Belle's, and she'd be getting paid for the sheep she herded. The sheep would be provided by the Queen. Where they came from, who knew?

Animal husbandry isn’t always a good thing. Yes, Belle knew, crossbreeding in hopes of better stock could bear fruitful offspring, but at the same time it caused a huge potential for a dysfunctional, disorderly, rowdy flock. _Oh? Putting so many different sheep together could be dangerous? Well that’s not my problem._ Her Majesty’s voice echoed in Belle's brain.

Belle just wished her sheep weren't so darn _human_ like. She could swear up and down the sheep understood her at times. It was a little creepy, really, how they stared at her as if they wanted their bookish handler to do something specific. Maybe she should just stop talking to them. It was getting to her head. She hardly socialized with anyone these days besides Rose and her flock.

Sometimes the new sheep that came in turned out good. Elsa and Anna, twin ewes, had an alarming tolerance to cold weather. This is a much sought-after trait for breeders in colder climates. Charming, one of Belle’s favorite rams, rarely fought with the other males, was well tempered, and had a _charmingly_ gallant personality. An excellent behavioral trait... yet he only had eyes for Snow. Huh.

…And then there’re sheep that have traits Belle can't really work with. Like Warrior, who had four horns. Four. Horns. What in the seven hells is a sheep with four horns good for besides scaring everybody? Getting random exorcisms from the traveling bible thumpers?! Well, Warrior was a bit like a body guard, so Belle prayed on that.

Shaking her head, Belle paused and waved her crook in front of Queenie to stop her. Seeing the leader-sheep stop, the following sheep stopped, too. They were now in the shade of the woodlands. Belle didn’t like letting the flock graze here. Today, however, was different. It was milking day. Through experience, Belle discovered that the ewes preferred shade to direct sunlight when getting milked. Belle was saving up the money she’d earned from her flock’s wool to build a proper barn – an upgrade from a semi-sheltered pen. That way she, Rose, and her flock wouldn’t have to near the woodlands.

“There,” ordered Belle to Rose. The sheepdog halted in her step, panting with her ears perked and ready for her next command. The shepherdess watched her flock slow down and disperse cautiously while giving the sheepdog wary glances. Seeing that it was time to graze, they relaxed and settled into feasting on the fresh greenery. “That’ll do, Rose,” Belle said, softer this time, patting her hip. The dog yelped happily at her mistress and pranced up to her, circling the young brunette adoringly before sitting down in a nice patch of shade. 

Belle sat two clean, yet worn with use, tin buckets on the ground, pulling one out the other. She then sat a small stool down, folded her skirts under her knees, and sat down. She made kissing sounds with her mouth, smirking at the closest ewes to her. The flock seemed to roll their eyes at their filly of a handler. “It’s that day again,” she cheered, reaching into one of her apron’s deep pockets and producing a handful of treats: crushed fruits and cornhusks. There wasn’t a single sheep in Belle’s herd that would turn their nose up at them.

Ruby came pussyfooting up to Belle first, wide black eyes fixated on the shepherdess's palm full of tasty nibbles. Belle smiled warmly at the young ewe with a shockingly rufous fleece, beckoning her forward with a reassuring hand.

When Ruby’s nose nudged the girl’s hand, snuffing curiously with light eagerness, another ewe came swaggering up to them.

Queenie was a black and red ewe with the bossiest, rudest personality Belle had ever known in a sheep. She aggressively charged the lower-ranking ewe and shook her head, stomping a foot to show authority. Ruby did not try to fight the alpha, and awkwardly careened away. 

The alpha ewe took Belle’s motionless handful of treats, eagerly lapping it up. Belle sighed and shook her head, leading her hand to the side for the ewe to follow, until Queenie’s hindquarters were diagonal with the brunette. “You like bullying the other girls around, don’t you, you funny old hag?” Belle said with merit, sliding a bucked under Queenie and settling more snacks on the ground to keep her still. “Hmm, come on, Your Majesty, let’s get you milked. Does it feel nice? Emptying your teats?” Belle normally spoke to her ewes. Speaking soothingly helped to relax them, and Belle liked talking nonsense when no one was around but her flock and/or Rose. 

When Belle was finished with Queenie, she patted her rump and sent her off, beckoning forth another ewe. She went on to every female (at least the only dairy sheep, which was a little over half of them). She naturally skipped Snow for she was nursing two young 'uns. Emma was more active than her foster brother, so she ate more than him, but Emma wasn't with her mama now. 

Speaking of Emma, the little mite, she was hopping around close to the rickety fence separating the woodland from Belle’s pasture. The lamb gazed out in fascination and eager curiosity into the dark and forbidding forest, baaing and hoofing at the fence. “Emma, lamb-y poo, don’t even think about. Yeah. I’m talking to you. What? No. I said _no_ , miss-priss.”

Emma bleated in her shrill infant voice, hopping about her herd, who sent uninterested or disapproving glances her way. Charming humored his daughter and faked a charge on her. Emma baaed in delight and galloped faster. Snow was heavy with gloriously white wool, milk, and maternity love, and she watched her lamb with a careful eye with August resting peacefully beside her. 

“Watch Emma,” Belle told Rose, who perked her black and beige ears, hardly following her mistress’s gesture toward the prancing lamb. Belle normally didn’t fret over lambs; they followed and mimicked the rest of the herd the moment they could stand, much less walk. The sheep also knew by instinct not to try penetrating the rickety fence at the edge of the woodlands. Even August, with his knobby knees and lanky figure, stayed close to his foster mother and the rest of the flock.

But not Emma.

~.~.~.~

As Belle’s second-to-last dairy ewe walked off, she got up to drag Aurora over, whom Warrior seemed to shadow constantly, and gave her most of what was left of the sheep nibbles. “Hey princess. You ready? Shh shh, girly, I gotcha.”

Rose suddenly yipped in alarm, breaking Belle and Aurora's tiny connection. It was a loud, piercing bark, causing Belle’s careful hands to pause, seconds away from drawing milk from the equally startled ewe. The shepherdess instantly looked over her flock, picking through the moderately idle mounds of fleece. Why did she think that it had to do with a certain little rascal? 

“Emma?” Belle asked, rising from her stool. She couldn't see the blonde little lamb anywhere. Warrior marched into the heart of the flock, as if looking for the lamb, too. 

Snow was baaing for her baby, now. She was up and searching, looking around frantically for her daughter. Charming bumped against his mate's shoulder, swinging his head to and fro as the calm left the herd. 

A slight panic overcame the flock, sheep raising their muzzles to the air, light fear and worry shadowing their pale and dark faces. Belle scooped up her crook and sheep shuffled to the side to let her through the crowd. “Emma?” she called again, searching under jittery legs. Her sandals scraped through the damp and dewy grass, moving sheep aside with her shepherd’s staff. “Emma!?”

Rose was barking and circling the anxious drove, sniffing around to figure out the problem. Belle whistled and ushered the sheepdog over. If she had something specific of Emma’s, she’d make Rose go scout the lamb out. She didn’t have anything of Emma’s scent. So, it was now on Belle to find her lost lamb. 

Belle stared into the woodlands, squinting to make out any sign of Emma. Snow, it seemed, sensed her wayward baby would wonder into such a forbidding place. The mother ewe baaed in desperate anguish, nudging the wooden fence separating the safe, open pasture, from the gloom of the unknown wilderness. Approching closer, the shepherdess saw a wooden post at fallen. It was big enough for a lamb to slip through.

Belle would not leave Emma to die in the woodlands, even if she was the most unruly lamb the young woman ever did have. 

“Stay! Guard!” Belle ordered Rose, who yipped in response, watching her mistress leave the buckets of sheep’s milk unattended, grip her crook with a new purpose, fix her skirts, hop the fence, and then vanish into the woods.

It would only take a second to find Emma... right?

~.~.~.~.

Emma was not hard to find; the lamb was an inexhaustible ball of adorableness and wanton youth, unaffected by her handler’s calls. Belle was at the point of tearing her hair out in annoyance, after what seemed to be the millionth time she’d tried to grab the lamb she chased up, and always Emma would get a spark of new energy and dash farther ahead. She’d then stop, wait for Belle to catch up, and then run off again.

“Oh, you…!” Belle huffed in frustration, tears threatening to spill. Poor Snow was probably livid with worry, and her mate and Emma’s father, Charming, was probably trying to ram the fence over by now.

“Baa!” Emma squealed, prancing around like the entire situation amused her dearly. 

The forest was scary. Trees loomed high in the air. The ground was not straight, covered with many obsticles like rocks, logs, mounds of dirt and flower beds. Branches stretched out like skeletal limbs, dressed in moss and colorful fungus. Warm late-spring mist hung in the air and stuck to the shepherdess’s skin, hair clinging to her perspiring neck like the cracks in ivory. Her underarms were drenched, she stank; Belle was not in a happy mood.

“Get back here you little sh— Oh!” Belle slowed down, once more catching up to the lamb. This time, it appeared that Emma had finally worn herself out. She’d found a pretty bed of wildflowers and laid down in the patch, watching the shepherdess slow down from a march to a wary sneak. “Emma,” she whined, leaning down and scooping the lamb up in her arms and shaking her head. “You’re poor momma is worried sick. What’ll your papa say, hmm?”

Emma yawned, her ears twitching as a fly flutters around her head. 

In the end, Belle supposed, she was just glad to get Emma back in one piece. She’d heard terrible stories of predators wandering out of the woodlands to find a nice, plump and easy meal like a defenseless babe from a stock. 

The shepherdess turned to leave, and paused half a step as she realized something, gazing out into the woods around her.

The only thing Belle had was her crook and a lamb. 

Dusk would come in a few hours or so, if the light of the sun was trustable in these woods, and all the books Belle’d ever read on wolves and other predators came flooding into her brain.

_Wolves are predominantly nocturnal creatures. Dawn and dusk is when they are most active. They hunt and live in packs with distinctive social dynamics. When a wolf howls, they are signaling others of their whereabouts, warning non-pack members of their territory, or calling for a mate._

As if to mock her, her fear, and her lamb, an eerie howl echoed through the forest.

Emma’s sleepiness faded into a mirroring of Belle’s feelings. The lamb began to shiver, and baa for her mother. 

Belle couldn’t find a light for the woodland’s exit. She couldn’t see the sun properly from within, and evening crept upon them. She had been so intent and busy on catching Emma safe and sound, blinded by frustration, that she’d already forgotten the way back.

Belle was utterly, completely lost.

~.~.~.~

Belle clutched Emma tighter, panic raising into her throat like bile. They’d been walking for what felt like hours, or at least, that’s what her smarting feet told her. Her heart hammered away, but Belle refused to let fear take over her senses. “Okay, Belle, just think… follow my footsteps…?”

The young woman had been a shepherdess for two years; hardly enough time to become a master tracker. 

Emma, restless in her arms, squirmed and cried out, hoofing against her handler’s sides with delicate trotters. 

“Hush little one, hush… We’ll get you to your mama yet, don’t you worry… Hey!”

Emma suddenly lept from her arms. Shocked by the lamb’s strength, and sudden bolt, Belle dumbly watch the lamb zip off to the left, sliding through awfuly dense trees and undergrowth. The shepherdess nearly sobbed and cursed all at once, and took off after. “EMMA! COME BACK! Oh, please…”

Emma came to a stop, after a minute of running. Leaning heavily against her crook, the young woman dragged her torn sandals against the ground, leaning down to pick the lamb up again.

Emma baaed as if to say, ”wait!” Belle, lamb in arms, straightened up and looked up at whatever had made the babe stop.

Belle let herself sob, happily so this time, as her watery blue eyes took in the sight.

A humble little cottage sat huddled beside a clearing, a small field of wildflowers and sun. Orange and purple clouded in the sky she could finally see, and a full moon was visible. 

Tightly packed straw, mud, and stone hatted the curiously fairytale-like cottage. There was a wide, round, railed porch way made of thin yet thick branches. Stones formed a low wall and walkway. Thick bushes covered half of the cottage—not enough for complete coverage, but proving a modest amount of privacy. 

Belle pussyfooted up to the quaint little hovel, relief and hope blooming in her chest.

It was short lived, however, as her flock and Rose’s image flooded her mind.

Emma shivered and mouthed at Belle, pulling her to the present. The lost shepherdess nodded, and, using her crook more and more as a cane, approached the woodland home.

The cottage itself was low, as if buried halfway into the ground, made of wood and dried mud. An asymmetrical, wooden door with a heavy black handle stood in the porch, and in the corner of the railed area was a worn rocking chair made of dark heavy wood. Two windows on either side of the cottage’s front showed no signs of life within. They were frosted and framed with clay. Everything about it looked magical, and Belle thought she’d wake up from this dream at any second.

Belle tiptoed onto the porch, sandals moving from forest ground to scrape against wooden floor. Emma in one arm, she lifted her crook to knock against the door.

She heard nothing from inside, nor saw anything in the windows.

“Maybe… maybe they’re not home?” Belle thought, sitting in the rocking chair. It was so, so comfortable. Or was that her first reaction when sitting down after hours of wandering?

Emma folded her legs under her, giving no sign of taking off again. The lamb was clearly tired, scared, and hungry.

When Belle moved to pet the infant’s fears away, she closed her eyes and began to rock. It creaked, but soothingly so. Night was practically on them, and darkness steadily overcame the woodlands. 

The shepherdess hardly noticed herself dozing off.

~

Something heavy thumped against the porch.

Belle’s eye flew open. Adrenaline shot through her body, jerking her awake. Emma baaed in displeasure, falling off the young woman’s lap. Senses jumbled and ran wild, the young woman frantically looking around to spot whatever danger had found her.

“Sorry, dearie, didn’t mean ta’ startle you.”

Belle flung herself from the rocking chair, nearly tripping over Emma on the way. She pressed herself against the porch’s branchy post, eyes wide with alarm. In the blink of an eye, the suddenly shepherdess remembered where she was and how she’d gotten there, and felt silly with embarrassment as a deep rosy blush blossomed across her cheeks.

She processed what was said to her. Glancing up for just a moment to see a man standing in front of the cottage door, the brunette bowed her head and stammered out a string of words, before composing herself with the reminder of bravery. After all, if this man turns out to be ill-willed or seedy, Belle would have an easier time getting away if she appeared unyielding. Not that she wasn’t, but she was in a strange and uncertain place, and, additionally, night was upon them, she lacked proper sleep, had a hungry lamb to care for, and a flock and pasture to get back to – ASAP.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I just,” she nervously laughed, “I just kinda fell asleep there. It’s an awfully comfy rocking chair! But, uh, you see, I’m a bit lost, and we came across your home here…You can blame Emma here for running off.”

The man waved a hand dismissively. Belle noted that he was shirtless, and wore baggy trousers before anything else. But it was dark out, and he wasn’t any clearer than a smudge in the darkness. “Fret not, no ‘arm done. M‘hearth is your hearth,” he nodded at the lamb burring itself in the shepherdess’s skirts. “Yer wee one is welcome, too.”

She relaxed significantly, sighing out in relief. “Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you so much!” Belle cried, picking Emma up and following the man who, after unlocking the cottage’s door with a heavy iron key, lumbered inside and beckoned the young woman to follow. “I was beginning to think that no one lived h—“ Belle abruptly, her eyes seeking her savior’s once he turned on a gas lamp.

Her jaw hung in disbelief, mid-sentence; confusion, uncertainty, unease, and millions of other emotions ran through her but not one logical thought came to mind.

The man isn’t wearing trousers. In fact, he isn’t wearing pants at all.

Thick, luxurious pewter and umber curls coated disfigured legs, two heavy cloven hooves clopping against wooden panels as the satyr moved about. His chest was heavily dusted in fine hairs, as was the tops of his forearms, hands, and a trail below his navel. There was no fur on his hips, as far as Belle could tell (or see), and his fur thinned on the very fronts of his haunches, thickened in the back and around the knee, yet grew velvety below the knee and to the hoof. A leather loincloth hung loosely on his hips, shielding whatever he deemed important enough to cover up.

“Fancy a cuppa, dearie?”

The balking shepherdess hardly processed the satyr’s question. “Uh- um- ya- sure—“ she miraculously managed. 

When he turned around, oblivious to his guest’s wide blue eyes of bewildered bafflement, Belle got an eyeful of a bare rear and furry tail from the ruffling of his buttock's loincloth. 

Blushing madly like a red apple, she tried to avoid the topic by focusing on one thing: He had a goat’s tail. A _**goat’s tail!**_

Belle shut her mouth, paling as a terrible dizziness washed over. Her eyes roamed over the wiry figure of the male, stopping at his head.

She balked harder.

Two horns grew from the uppermost sides of his head with prominent backwards spiral, curling inwards a bit and off to the sides. A pair of buck ears peeked from a curtain of kinked brown hair, like his fur. _This is... I must be dreaming. He can’t be real._

The satyr stood before a sink with a water pump, produced two mugs from a cupboard, and set them on the small kitchen table. He then filled a kettle with water and set it on a hook in the cottage’s hearth. When he turned back to Belle, his eyes met hers. “I dinnae see a-many humans walk this way. Was it truly so hard to catch yer wee one, Shepherdess?” he asked, merit dancing in his warm brown eyes, crow’s-feet crinkling into view with his lopsided grin. One of his teeth seems to be solid gold. 

Belle could not stop staring at the satyr. She just refused to believe her eyes.

“Are you real?” she asked, body refusing to let her avoid the question. Politeness be damned when staring into the eyes of a being she’d thought lived only in fairytales and bedtime stories. 

The satyr tilted his head to the side, but didn’t miss a beat. “Are any of us really real?”

“I—!“

He raised a hand, suddenly looking shy. “Apologies, dearie. I assumed from yer ease on the porch that you felt comfortable with my kind.”

“… your kind.” she deadpanned.

“Aye.”

“You’re a… goat man. An _actual_ goat man. Like, like a satyr or faun," she stated dully, questions beginning to flood her brain.

“Part satyr, anyhow,” he answered with a careless shrug.

“Part one?”

“'m a half-blood, dearie.”

At Belle's uncertain silence, he added, "My father was the satyr."

“Oh… well, okay…" Was there a difference between a faun and a satyr? Oh well, her host must know. He did respond with "satyr" anyhow. "Well, I’m Belle. The Queen's shepherdess,” she said, awkwardly, tapping her crook on the ground, Emma baaing in response to that. Her host then let out an oddly shrill laugh. Surprised, but thinking he was just amused by her shyness, she reached a hand out to him, hoping the satyr at _least_ continued to be friendly toward her. He eyed her offered hand with light uncertainty, but took her's in his own without much hesitation with a warm, strong grip. He lifted her hand and puckishly kissed the top of it. Belle shivered. 

“Rumplestiltskin the Meddler, at yer service.”


	2. Satyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Emma go home.

_“Please, please don’t do this,” Belle begged, crying with big reddened blue eyes as she was cornered, cowering, in her betrothed’s lavish, costly chambers._

_He just glared at her, his heady breath sending chills of pure terror and dread down the maiden’s spine. “I am to be your goddamn husband. Your body is my right! Woman, why do you deny me?”_

_“Yes, to be! Not now, am I your wife. Please stop, please. I don’t want this—If you let me go, I won’t tell my father.”_

_He laughed, swaying. “My father’s militia as a gift to yours is too great an importance to refuse. Your Papa would still sell you to me if he’d to do it on his knees!”_

_She sobbed, skirting away like a timid, wild rabbit once the brut of a man stepped back, letting go of her arms._

_Miraculously, her betrothed abided her supplication for chastity. But she knew it wouldn’t last forever. No. She’d get her virtue ripped from her if it was the last thing they did._

_She had to leave before that happened. She just had to._

~.~.~

Belle awoke with a start. Tears stained her face; fears haunted her mind. Her hair was wild and tangled. A panicked glance around the room told her she wasn’t in her childhood home, where there was a lumpy old cot laying on an elegantly white four-poster, girlish pink draperies for tall windows, and huge wooden wardrobes adorned with run-of-the-mill jewels. She wasn’t in Gaston’s home, where his demanding, accusing glare awaited her every morning and night.

She wasn’t in her home, where a simple featherbed was the only witness to her nightly terrors, and the smell of livestock replaced what was once lighthearted laughter with a father she once loved to a fault, or unwanted grabs at her lady things. 

Belle shook her head to discard her memories, but it was futile. Like always. Sighing, she threw her legs to the side of the bed, and tried to remember how she’d gotten to this strange, unfamiliar room.

Emma. A childish chase in the woods. Frightening woods. A cottage. Refuge for the night.

The Meddler. The Piper. The Half-Man. The Troublemaker. The Devil. The Cradle-Snatcher. 

Rumplestiltskin. 

Belle rubbed her eyes free of crust and tears. So… it wasn’t a dream. The man whom she’d grown up listening to stories of had saved her from a night of wolves. Even sitting on her father’s lap, giddy and plump with youth, she’d known he was fiction. Not real. Belle looked around the room. It was as it was last night, when her host so generously lent it to her. Her host, a satyr, was the Meddler.

He was a pied mage in the stories she recited as a child, fluctuating from a whimsical helper to those in need, to a twofaced sleaze, a _goat_ , who silver-tongued and desecrated the heroes and heroines for fun. Oh, and something about stealing young children with a panpipe, but Papa never told her those stories. 

But no one told Belle that Rumplestiltskin would be a generous, albeit quirky, satyr who offered disorientated and vulnerable women refuge for the night. Or how he laughed like an imp and had a bright, sharp-witted intellect. 

“Baa.” Something poked her arm, soft and warm. Emma’s big, innocent black eyes gazed back at her as she wobbled over on the great big straw mattress. Her duck-fluff, velveteen fur was clean and spotless, and the shepherdess couldn’t resist reaching out and pulling the lamb into her lap. She stroked her fur and patted her rump.

“Hey schnucke. Sleep okay?”

Emma hid her face in the crook of her arm, munching on the loose gown Belle wore. For a short moment, the luxurious material she’d somehow donned didn’t spark any familiarity in Belle’s mind. It was too fancy for a shepherdess to wear. Oh, had all the sheep herding been a dream? Had Gaston gotten mad enough to throw her in a hovel? 

No. That can’t be. Emma was right here, a sure and physical reassurance that Belle’s conversion to the shepherd life hadn’t been just a farfetched daydream. 

Rumplestiltskin the satyr had given this gown to her. 

A bright blush bloomed on her cheeks, and she stood up and sat Emma down, her gown flowing and dragging behind her. 

He’d welcomed her and her velveteen charge without complaint, offered her food and drink, presented her with room and bed. He’d even given her a gown to sleep in for mere comfort. _I’d be more bastard than host if I let a lovely nymphean shepherdess and her weest one dae without_.

And to top it off, he’d called her a nymph! A nymph! Blushing harder, Belle lifted her skirts and shuffled across the room to where she’d discarded her day clothes.

The gown was rich, despite all its… lack of fastenings. It was generously cut, on her petite form… Though sagging and hanging loosely on her, exposing everything to her neck, collarbone, and sternum – and Belle knew that if she’d broke into a run or bent over, her bosom would spill out! – it felt nice and free, flowing against her body like an angel’s tunic. It came in two layers: the foremost a creamy taffeta, topped by a soft and flaxen kirtle. The gown was warm and fresh, too. It certainly did not meet the standards for a wealthy woman’s nightwear, but most definitely not represent what the average peasant wore, either. 

She shimmied out of it, sighing dreamily as she laid it across the straw mattress with light aspiration. If anything, she’d truly feel like Rumplestiltskin’s nymph if she decided to up and sylph through the woods in it! 

At Emma’s anxious mewl, Belle pulled out of her reverie and got to dressing once she found the chamber pot and relieved herself. The light filtering in through the small window told her it was a little bit after dawn. To her, that was late. Since she converted to the shepherd life, dawn was the time to wake up. And here she’d been, snoozing away in a stranger’s home like a vagabond! Goodness, she had to get back to her flock as quick as possible! With that in mind, Belle sped up.

Her shepherdess uniform was modest and simple. Cotton drawers, garters, bodice with wide straps, a plain white petticoat, a flaxen work-dress, and a grass-stained apron. To keep her hair back, the shepherdess donned a baby-blue ribbon.

Tying back her apron the way she liked it, Belle opened the bedroom door and ushered Emma out with her.

“Rumplestiltskin?” Belle called out, braver than last night, but still feeling a bit shy. She used to be so eager to meet new people, but now it felt like walking across a beam above shark-infested waters while blindfolded. 

There was no answer at first, and Belle just looked around and studied the room she was too tired to study last night.

It was a humble abode when it came to size, but the material in it was… lavish. There are gas lamps on the walls and windows angled to let the most of the day’s light in, morning or early evening. There was a hand pump and a sink, cupboards, a rectangular table with a bowl of nuts and fresh fruits adorning it, fancily carved chairs, a modest hearth, a grand spinning wheel in the corner, Persian rugs, a basket of richly dyed cloths, another basket filled with flax and straw, shelves arrayed with a wide range of knickknacks and novelties… and a panpipe hanging on the back of the door.

It was coated in a fine layer of dust. In fact, _everything_ except the chairs and the great spinning wheel was covered in dust! Was that a good thing, or bad, regarding the pipe? The stories spoke of the Piper using his trusty instrument as a tool for hypnosis, luring naughty young children off into the night to do Lord knows what to them. But, wasn’t that was satyrs did – play the pipes and fool around? 

A shuffle of movement had Belle turn around, watching as a trap door of sorts on the ground opened, and a curly, horned head popped out. Rumplestiltskin blinked up at her, as if surprised to find her there. He hoped out, hooves clopping awkwardly as he got out of the secret basement. _Has that trapdoor always been there?_ Belle wondered. The satyr left it open.

“Good morning, dearie,” the satyr said, giving her a weak smile. “Sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” Belle said in earnest, hoping her appreciation for his kindness wasn’t hidden beneath her sheepish approach. “I didn’t realize you had a basement…”

Rumplestiltskin cocked his head, strands of hair falling over his eyes. “Aye, I do. Tea?”

“Ah, no, I’m afraid not… I really must get back to my flock. Perhaps,” she twiddled with her apron, “another time?” 

The satyr smiled at that, trotting to the table to pick at the fruits. “I’d like that very much, dearie," he said, then met her gaze. "May I have the honor to walk you home? That is, if you need directions,” he flared his hands in a whimsical manner.

Belle felt tension fall off her shoulders. Thank goodness he’d offered to show her the way home! If he didn’t, she and Emma would probably spend a few more hours trying to find the way back. “Oh, yes please. I-If it isn’t too much trouble?”

“Nae trouble at all,” he said with a toothy grin as he skipped off to a coat rack. She tried not to stare at the way his hooves curled inward to his fetlocks. Belle’s shepherd’s crook was against the corner, and it passed it to her with a silent nod. Then, he pulled off a long brocade tailcoat and put it on. The tails came down to the backs of his haunches, but exposed him below the waist in the front. His loincloth provided enough covering, where it mattered. Buttoning up, Rumplestiltskin asked, “Would you like breakfast for the road? I know yer jumpin’ to get back to yer wee ones, but it’s the most important meal of the day, after all.”

The shepherdess fought the urge to laugh. This satyr was just too sweet! How could anyone say he’s a ravishing puck? Belle would certainly like to meet that person and give them a piece of her mind! “You’ve already given me so much since last night, and now your offering me breakfast?” she teased, bashfulness melting away with every little kindness her host gave her. She looked at the bowl of fruits and nuts on the table. They did look tasty… “I truly don’t know how I can ever repay you.” 

Rumplestiltskin didn’t answer her right away. Silently, he clopped to the hand pump and produced a mug, filled it, then handed it to Belle. She nodded thanks and downed it. “Perhaps we can work something out at a later date.”

Between a mouthful of water, and dainty nibbles on grapes and almonds, Belle muffled out agreement. She raised her crook to usher Emma out, who she’d expected to be beside her, but stopped short.

“Emma?” she called, whistling for the blonde adolescent ewe. The room was lamb-free. Blue eyes met with brown and both satyr and shepherdess began a delicate, yet frantic search. Belle could’ve sworn Emma had been beside her, just seconds ago! But, Emma was, after all, so unruly…Before she knew it, they'd turned his cottage upside down trying to find her.

“Does she run off this often?” Rumplestiltskin asked, pulling the basket of straw away, filtering through it, and then put it back once Emma was obviously not in there. The satyr moved about faster then, and skipped off across the room to the trapdoor while Belle went to the bedroom, pulling the covers up.

“Yes!” She said, hardly having to raise her voice from their short distance. “She’s always running off or rebelling against the alpha sheep or her mother. I mean, I know my flock is weird, but Emma’s the only one who’s this unruly… They’re all usually docile…”

“Ah. Is that so…?” He sounded as if he was off in another world.

Belle felt yesterday’s frustration and the need to throttle the little lamb arise to new levels, beside embarrassment and guilt for imposing on her generous host for far longer than she anticipated. They should already be heading home by now! And Rumplestiltskin has been courteous enough, but would he continue to be so if Emma kept them here? Would he still show her the way home, or kick her out of the cottage? And, what of her flock, and Rose!? They needed her! 

Walking back into the main room, she saw no sign of the satyr clad in leather. However, before Belle could panic, a loud crash from below signaled his whereabouts.

“Baa!” Emma’s frightened mewl spurred protective urges in the shepherdess, and without thought the brunette swooped down into the basement.

She expected stairs, or at least a rail, but Belle landed in a pile of straw and a sharp twist in her ankle. Cursing her brash impulsiveness, she scrambled to stand up and find her lamb. 

The basement, while large, wasn’t dark and dank like she’d known most basements to be, but airy, generously illuminated, and chock-full of… stuff.

Belle shuffled forward and glanced around, seeing desks and bookshelves and gewgaws and kickshaws and tools she couldn’t even begin to label. In short, it looked like the laboratory of an alchemist.

Thinks bubbled over in pots and caldrons, cylinders held strange pungent liquids, books laid in total disarray across every surface, filled with odd sketches and diagrams, scribbled with sidenotes she couldn’t even begin to decipher. Her mouth begun to feel stale.

A bookcase had been toppled over onto one of the desks, and smoking acidic chemicals sizzled onto the fallen books, marring ink into ugly wet smears, and stained the wooden panels something nasty. It clogged the brunette's nose, and she held her breath just so she wouldn't faint. 

“Rumplestiltskin?” she called out, feeling as if she’d intruded. This room he hadn’t shown her, nor told her about, and hadn’t made attempts to refer it. It felt personal, and she felt unwanted. But Emma was down here.

“Wait—!“ the satyr’s uneasy response made Belle gain courage to come closer, tiptoeing across the mess. He came out from behind a still-standing bookcase, looking annoyed. “Stay there, dearie,” he said with a sharpness that had Belle root in her spot. He disappeared for another second, but when he reemerged the satyr was carrying Emma over his shoulders, holding her ankles. He walked over and steered Belle with a hand on the small of her back, a light yet firm touch.

She let him guide her without resistance. 

Rumplestiltskin motioned to a ladder and the shepherdess moved up, quickly scrambling onto the main level. He followed suit, and put Emma down on the table, shoving the bowl of foodstuffs away. It crashed with a sharp shatter - glass, fruit, and nuts flying into several directions.

Emma was covered in something sticky and green. It clung to her duckling-like velvety wool in globs, slowly running down and trickling onto the table. Some of it clung to her ears and face, and a pink tongue was already working on licking away what was on her nose and chin. She smelled like manure and burnt human hair.

“I am so, so sor—“ the satyr cut her off with a wave of his hand, and didn't meet her gaze after long moments of silence. He didn’t seem to be mad, and Belle didn’t think he’d hurt for punishment on behalf of Emma, but something akin to shame and guilt filled her chest and threatened to bring up her brief breakfast. 

“It’s nae your fault, dearie. But right now you should be focused on yer wee one,” he said with an coolness that sent chills down Belle’s spine. Rumplestiltskin now looked cold, distant, and his friendly brogue had melted away, just a bit, into this new satyr all together. She didn't like it. “Her Majesty will be most displeased.”

“Wa—I’m sorry, what does this have to do with the Queen? What’s wrong with Emma? Is this green stuff poisonous?!” she choked, motioned to the viridescent film splattered across the three-month-old lamb. 

“It’s nawt…” he mumbled, flinging a glob of the strange stuff off with his bare hand. He willingly touched it, so it couldn’t be terrible… And Emma seemed to think it tasted pretty good. At that, she helped the satyr clean the lamb in the sink, lathering the lamb in running water and lye soap.

“Is she going to be alright?” she asked tentatively, hoping the kind satyr would come back, versus this cold and distant satyr… either way, she had a feeling he was upset with her for going down in that basement of his, but he never told her not to in the first place. Was that were all of the legends behind him where born? The magic, the chemicals, was it nothing more than a hoax? Or was it indeed magical? Belle wouldn’t know… She hadn’t asked him much last night, too tired and weary to bother asking. 

Rumplestiltskin didn’t answer her, but he turned toward Belle with a tight smile. “How about we get you home, shepherdess?”

Belle looked at Emma. She seemed fine, and the satyr wasn’t freaking out. So, it was probably nothing…Probabky.

“Alright. Let’s go home.”

~.~.~.~

Emma was indeed fine after her bath, and the day was warm and sunny, so she practically floofed into amusing proportions once she galloped outside in her clean blond fleece. To keep her from running away, they’d found a long string of rope and made a makeshift leash for her. Rumplestiltskin had finally came back to his kinder self now. He apologized for his behavior once they were at least a half-mile’s way off into the woods.

She cheekily pressed her lips together. “I’m not going to say it’s alright,” Belle said, haughtier than she’d ever been with Rumplestiltskin, but playfully so. 

Rumplestiltskin had been courteous, Belle reminded herself, and was still willing to take her home. He was even man enough to apologies for his coldness. He’d gone after Emma who snuck into his laboratory like the scamp she was and kept Belle from walking on his unmentionable potions. He fed her and provided shelter, without so much as a demand for repayment, besides this morning’s comment about them having tea sometime on a later date. And to Belle’s girlish delight, the satyr held a little _bashfulness_ for her! He’d get so flustered once the shepherdess decided to get up close and personal. 

After they cleaned Emma, Rumplestiltskin seemed to suddenly notice that Belle was practically glued to his side. He flushed and skirted away. At that, Belle’s heart thawed, and all the uncertainty she felt for the satyr faded into pure, friendly fondness. Belle decided to probe this curious side of him, both amused and charmed by this sudden boyishly shy mien of his.

But he _had_ frightened her. Not once did he try to reassure the shepherdess that whatever her lamb had come into contact with was benign. He didn’t even explain what it was, what his laboratory was for, or why he said _“Her Majesty will be most displeased”_ when they checked Emma over. Belle was sure she hadn’t brought up the Queen in the satyr’s presence, or how the only reason she’d become a shepherd was because of Queen Regina’s generosity.

“I expected as much.”

“You frightened me back there, Mr. Piper, and being all tight-lipped about it didn’t help. If you plan to woo a pretty young satyress some day, you must remember that honesty is the best policy!” 

Rumplestiltskin made a loud squeak of surprise. He turned and gawked at her, but the Piper quickly, albeit clumsily, shook his head and folded his arms behind his back as if unaffected by her flattery. 

It was very clear he was affected by her flattery. “My days of courting have long since passed, dearie.”

“Aw, come on,” she teased gently, showing her dimples as her eyes twinkled. She nudged his arm with hers. “You, a handsome satyr, still a bachelor? Don’t say such a silly things.”

He stuttered into a flushed mess, hands unfolded and frenetically dancing in the air, visibly, though nervously, searching for something to say while sending wary glances toward her. “Ye flatter me speechless, m’dear maidenly nymph.” 

Nymph. There’s that word again. Belle blushed this time, mind flitting toward several paintings she’d seen during her time as a lady. Whimsical, colorful paintings of naked or near-naked maidens dancing with goat-men in the most sensual of manners. Belle didn’t know if Rumplestiltskin called her nymphean because of the sheer irony of it, or because he simply wished to flatter her. Or flirt with her. The brunette blushed harder at that thought. Stories about the goatfolk didn’t hide the rule that they were lustful, drunken gods waiting to “play” with the beautiful sprites of the woods and waters. But, Belle was hardly chaste. She glowered for a moment. She wouldn’t think of Gaston, not here, not now, not beside this satyr who’s famed for committing unspeakable deeds yet had shown her nothing but tenderness. 

“Well, I’m hardly a maiden,” she says, voice lowering an octave. She tightened a hold on Emma’s rope and crook. The lamb trotted happily beside her handler without trouble. 

Rumplestiltskin was silent for a moment before asking, “Why d’you say that?” 

Belle kept her eyes ahead, mentally cussing out her carelessness. “Because it’s true—“

“Oh ho ho, dearie, I’d beg to differ—”

“It’s _really_ none of your business—“

“Why lie about something like that? It’s no shame tae—“ 

“Just _drop_ it, please,” was Belle’s bitter, rigid response. To sweeten the blow, which had already made the satyr flinch as if she’d stricken him, Belle added, “Please. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I just really don’t want to talk about it.”

“…As you wish,” Rumplestiltskin said, but the challenging tone of his voice when he’d denied her claim of impurity warmed a little bit of her heart. 

An uncomfortable silence filled the space between them. They walked a little faster after that, and they traveled through the dense forest until Belle thought she’d tear her hair out from the painful, palpable awkwardness.

“So,” she started, walking closer to the hooved man. He looked surprised that she still wished to speak with him. This mousiness spurred a little bravery in Belle. “You’re the famous Rumplestiltskin. May I call you Rumple? Your full name’s a bit of a mouthful, but, I’m sorry if that’s a bit offensive...”

He tucked his chin into the collar of his coat, avoiding her gaze and staring holes into the ground. “Whatever you wish tae call me I shall be.”

“Alright, Rumple. Why do people call you the Meddler? Or, the Piper? If you don’t mind me asking. It’s alright to not answer. My nurses said that asking too many questions isn’t ladylike.” _Lucky for me, I’m no ~~longer a~~ lady._

Rumple went silent again, staring off into space as they trod along the forest path. Very faintly, through the trees up ahead, she saw a clearing. 

“That’s a question that can’t be answered in one sitting, dearie.”

Belle licked her lips. “Do you really steal children with your panpipe?”

He glowered heavily, still refusing to meet her gaze. “Nae. I’ve inherited many a nasty rumor, and there’re some who’d fight hoof and hock to prove me’a bastard,” Rumple’s dark glare vanished and it was replaced with a rueful smile. “It’s still up for debate, if ye wish to join in,” and at that, he wiggled his eyebrows with a cheeky smirk. Belle could not help but burst out laughing, and like that, the tense spell of awkwardness broke.

He was funny, too, besides kind. Belle opened up a little more and asked varying questions, not disregarding the way he skillfully avoided certain topics by countering them with quips and whimsies. Yet, for her new friend’s sake and hers, she didn’t press for answers on touchy subjects. 

Rumple absolutely avoided going into detail about his family or his origins. All Belle knew was the short comment last night, saying that his father was a satyr, but his mother was not the same species. 

She then brought up the question if satyrs and fauns were one and the same.

Rumple actually guffawed at this. His laugh was deep and pleasant, not like the shrill titter he usually used. “Aye, there is a difference. Anyone among the goatfolk would happily jump up to explain that, dearie. 

“Oh? How come?”

“Satyrs and fauns hate each other with a passion!” he said, as if deeply amused by this. “They look just a wee bit different, yet think different, act different… Same species, I’ve to admit, but either race would be much’a happier if the other was nonexistent.”

“No!” Belle exclaimed, turning to Rumple sharply. She put a hand to her mouth. “Why would they want that?”

“A wheen o’ reasons. Satyrs are the ones you see in paintings, dancing whit’ the sprites of the wood and water. We’re a lustful, diminutive race with only one concern, and that’s for ourselves and our things. Attend any large party with alcohol and woman, you’ll find a satyr, I assure you. It’s no fib tha’ satyrs chase after nymphs. Please bear caution if yer plannin’ on a forest exposition in the buff any time soon.”

“Hardy har har,” she droned with a roll of her eyes. Blinking as she processed his other words, she adds, “Lustful?” Belle narrowed her eyes, yet without ire. She gave a once-over on him, specifically around his loincloth area, and saw no proof of “lustfulness”. “You don’t really seem the type, Rumple…”

“Nae that, shepherdess. When I say lustful, I dinnae specifically mean sexual. Think cardinal. Wha’ I mean tae say is _desiring_. Anyone can lust over anything. Sex, power, strength, attractiveness, love, knowledge, popularity… List goes on. Understand? Lust is simply a strong passionate desire fer something.”

Belle nodded a little. She glanced him up and down. Him, with his modest home and fancy furniture, the unmentionable laboratory… He has taste, he has secrets – she’d give him this. But Rumplestiltskin, a lustful entity? “Alright… but, you—“

“Just half satyr, remember?”

“Oh,” she did remember, but didn’t know what other “half” being he was. Yet she strongly suspected he wouldn’t elaborate. “And what about the fauns?”

Rumple sighed tiredly and kicked at a stone in his path. “The opposite of satyrs. When you hear stories of goatfolk who deal whit’ humans, hindering or helping them, those stories refer tae the fauns. Fauns tend tae be more hairy, I must admit, and certainly hone more control over their desires. They’re fewer in numbers, live longer lives, and mate only once. Nonconformists, compared to satyrs. They don’t like humans nor do they seek them out, but if they happen to run into one, and depending on how that human behaves toward that faun, a deal of sorts can arise. Tae say in the least, fauns are more, ah, let’s say, magical. Spiritual. They look down on their more secular counterparts and scoff.

“That goes to say that satyrs spit in the fauns’ name. Even though satyrs are unconcerned with wisdom and spirituality like the fauns, it’d be a poor lie if someone said fauns are smarter than satyrs because of that. Lust falls for knowledge to, dearie, so if a faun and satyr decided to have a race of smarts, I guarantee you the satyr would win. But if it be a battle of skills, the faun would win. Both sides have been in an unspoken war for the better part of their existence. Where you find one member of goatfolk, his enemy is far away or buried in an unmarked grave.”

Belle shuddered. Just when she opened her mouth to speak, a loud baa broke her focus. She turned forward.

Wolfe was standing before them.

Wolfe was one of Belle’s first sheep, besides Queenie. He’s black-skinned and bears grayish beige wool, and two big and heavy horns curled against his head. Wolfe had a quiet yet watchful mien, and sometimes he would stare off into the woods as if waiting, or wanting, something.

“Wolfe!” Belle exclaimed, nearly dropping Emma’s leash as she ran to the ram, grabbing hold of one of his horns. He was palpable when he wanted to be, but not entirely submissive. He shook his head, stomping a food as he rubbed his head against the shepherdess’s leg, nipping at her skirts. Belle looked up and away, seeing the clearance to her pasture just up ahead. So close! But, seeing Wolfe here, in the woods, and an obviously broken fence scattered about sent panic through the shepherdess. “My flock!”

Rumple timidly approached her, taking an unusually docile Emma into his arms. “I believe you have a runaway or two…?”

Belle said nothing, unable, and shot him a desperate plea in her blue eyes before bolting. 

A couple of the sheep were scattered about, not in a herd like they typically were. The pregnant ewes, Alice and Ella, assisted by their mates Hatter and Princely, were struggling to get up and greet them. Snow and Charming where huddled together beside the woodland line, and once they saw Belle the two charged like mad bulls.

Rumple was close behind, carrying Emma under his right arm and Wolfe over his left shoulder, as if the full-grown ram was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Wolfe didn’t look happy in the least.

Emma was quickly set down and the lamb rushed to her parents bleating something akin to crying. August, the doll, was just as happy to see Emma as Snow and Charming.

Belle nearly balked at the scene, not exactly expecting such an… emotional reunion. None of her books said that sheep were very poignant. And just like that, sheep began to appear and rushed to reform their herd, baaing loud and in varying tones as they crowded the shepherdess. Warrior and Aurora came stumbling from the forest, passing Wolfe who Rumple had set down after Emma. Queenie and Wicked came shuffled after, the last to come. After all twenty sheep of Belle’s herd conjoined as if they’d never parted, she began to wonder where Rose was. No sign of her loyal sheepdog was to be found, and she hastily whistled her to come. A distant barking was the response, and the shepherdess dropped her crook and took off, clumsily grabbing the ends of her skirts as she hunkered up the hill.

There, in the sheep’s pen, was Rose. Locked up. _What on Earth...?_

One couldn’t lock the gate unless you where standing outside of it… How…?

“This’s quite the sight.”

Belle turned to Rumple who was trotting cautiously beside her. Sheep followed them like crying children. 

Seeing that Rumple still remained, she was so moved that she fell into his arms. She was so, so scared for her flock, thinking she’d come home to find the aftermath of a slaughtering. But she got back in one piece with Emma, and no one was hurt in her absence. Belle clutched at the satyr, fingers grasping at the scaled leather he wore. It was warm from the sun. He smelled like straw and spice. 

“Oh,” she cried into his collar, “thank Pan y—“

Like a switch, the satyr abruptly flinched so violently it was as if she’d bitten him. He growled out, hissing, “ _What did you just say?_ ”

The sheep suddenly got very, very quiet, as did Belle. 

Belle was speechless. She’d never heard the satyr yell before now. So. His kindness had finally run out, hmm...? But, Belle didn’t like jumping to conclusions. Something wasn't right. She eased her head off of his shoulder and met his gaze, still clinging to him. “I-I beg your pardon?”

Rumple wriggled out of her hug and hopped backwards in a graceful manner, but his eyes burned with something dark – something dark that Belle didn’t understand. “So. You pay tribute to the shepherd’s God, hmm?” he said accusingly, smiling bitterly at her.

 _What?_ “…Um, no, but, I mean, since I met you, and from what you said about the goatfolk, I just kinda assumed Pan was re—”

“ _ **Whisht**_ , shepherdess!” The livid satyr snarled, pointing a finger right before her face. He then lurched forward and grasped her arms, tightly. Too tightly. “Dinnae ever, _**ever**_ say tha’ name again, do you understand?! Nae, nae again! Aye? _Nae again!_ ” 

“Rumplestiltskin, your hurting me,” Belle mewled, feeling his fingers digging into her arms. 

The second she said that, the satyr stared at her as if he was miles away. Seconds after, let go as if she’d burnt him. 

He stepped about five feet back, shaking his head and twiddling his hands together, stumbling over his hooves. 

“...I am sorry. I, I dinnae mean tae…”

“It’s… okay. It’s fine, Rumple. I won’t say it again. I promise.”

He met her eyes under a certain of hair. “Dae I have yer word, madam? Swear by it?”

“Yes, yes of course you have it – my word. You have it,” Belle spoke with her hands raised, as if comforting a cornered, wild animal. 

Rumple looked so shaken, so kidlike all of a sudden. That fearsome tailcoat of his looked like it was too big, and he was too small. His ears drooped in a way that pulled at Belle’s heartstrings, and she wanted nothing but to each out and pet him, kiss his black nose and let the hurt wash away in a reassuring hug. But that was silly. They just met. 

And he’s just showed a new, violent side of him, and Belle felt every single memory she’s tried to suppress since becoming a shepherdess arise like a tidal wave. Now she felt too sick to argue. The memories of a violent man who’d wanted nothing but to break Belle were too strong. 

“…It was my pleasure to help such a lovely nymphean shepherdess.” Rumple said, head bowed. He’d crouched down onto his haunches, fingers fiddling with the grass. The sheep had gone elsewhere.

“I am very grateful of your kindness, Mr. Piper. I wouldn’t have gotten here sooner without your help. Thank you. Really, I mean it.”

Rumple winced, and refused to answer or stand up right away. Belle stepped closer, reaching a hand out. She put a hand on his head, feeling the warm horns and soft hair of him. He quaked beneath her touch, at first, but grew still. Seeing that he wasn’t about to jump her, she faught to be brave, and sat on her heels before him. After a moment’s silence, he asked hesitantly, “Dearie, I forgot tae ask you… Does Her Majesty visit you often?”

That was not a question Belle had expected. She paused. Oh, wait, that’s right, he'd said something earlier regarding Queen Regina, hadn’t he?

Standing up, Belle said, “On occasion she comes to visit, but half of the time it’s to hand me more sheep. I’m supposed to be Her Majesty’s royally appointed animal husbandman, but… my sheep don’t really… Oh, I don’t know, it’s sounds weird, but they don’t really act like normal sheep.” She looked over the flock. All the sheep stared at them as if they were aliens. “Emma is the only one who’s been lambed into my flock. August is a foundling. I should have double the sheep by now, my books said they breed faster than this… This isn’t really normal sheep behavior,” she went on, walking over to unlatching the pen’s lock, and Rose bolted like a bat out of hell. In turn, most of the sheep flocked to the hills. Belle whistled for Rose to listen up after giving a pat and kiss of greeting, and ordered, “Walk up,” and Rose dashed over to the flock. Turning back to the leather-clad satyr still sitting on his haunches, Belle continued, “Her Majesty comes to give me more sheep once she has one ‘worthy’ enough. She gives them names them, too. Besides the lambs… I named Emma after a warrior princess. Ha. And I found August back in, well, August.”

The satyr nodded. Belle smiled and turned to go back to her flock, calling out, “Away!” to Rose, who then rounded the sheep.

Belle frowned as she saw one sheep still there. It was Hatter.

Hatter was an odd ball who liked doing everything opposite. Sometimes he’d run the opposite away when the herd was going the other, or hop about instead of trotting. He doted on Alice, would follow Belle home sometimes, and baa back at Rose if she was trying to move him. 

Here Hatter stood like a stoic, staring at Rumple with wide, wide eyes. He approached the satyr tentatively, head low to the ground like a cat approaching something curious. Rumple finally looked up at Hatter once the chestnut ram touched the satyr’s knee.

Rumple frowned, and lifted a hand to the ram’s upturned horns. “You too?” he said, softly. Belle wasn't sure she'd heard that right.

Hatter just blinked, but the staring contest between sheep and satyr ended as said sheep spun around and bounded away like a rabbit.

“That’s Hatter,” Belle said, simply.

“Aye.”

The satyr stood up and brushed down his tailcoat, turning to the shepherdess as if nothing had happened. “One more thing, dearie. If yer wee blond one, Emma…” Rumple took a breath. “If anything odd happens, just call m’name. Can you promise me this? Swear by it? Do not, I repeat, do not tell the Queen anything, if anything happens. Aye?”

Belle blinked. What an odd question… She turned to look at her flock, running about with Rose after them. Just like any another day… She turns to meet him—

But the satyr was gone. Vanished into thin air. As if he'd never been there.

“Rumple?” she called out, but after frantically glancing around he proved to be nowhere in sight. 

And pulled by fierce black horses and armed knights, the Queen’s dark carriage came into view from a distance.

Her Majesty was here to deliver another sheep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. 
> 
> Panpipes. Satyrs. Nymphs.
> 
> Rumple gets his parents' crap thrown on him all the time. 
> 
> Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. See where I'm going with this?


	3. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle sheds some light on how she came to be a shepherdess, and Queen Regina brings a new wooly friend for her. 
> 
> And something very, very wrong happens. 
> 
> Should Belle call Rumple now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As stated before, Belle’s flock consists of varying breed of sheep. 
> 
> There are hundreds of sheep breeds. 
> 
> Some breeds are… ironic, to say in the least... 
> 
> Here’re some of the breeds (obviously, Belle doesn’t mention this because the story is set in the middle ages and animal husbandry actually wasn't a big thing yet) 
> 
>  
> 
> • Queenie: Black Welsh Mountain (blackish-reddish sheep)  
> • King: Bluefaced Leicester (old men sheep?)  
> • Snow: Royal White (take a wild f*king guess)  
> • Charming: Dall (handsome sheep - or, "omg wow i'd date you if i was an ewe" sheep)  
> • Ruby: California Red (sheep that are born red at birth)  
> • Rapunzel: Wensleydale (dreadlock sheep)  
> • Hatter: Soay (brown and crazy-looking sheep)  
> • Wolfe: Norfolk Horn (sheep that are known to have wild spirits. They apparently like running and jumping over stuff like goats.)  
> • Warrior: Jacob (fiercest sheep you'll ever meet)  
> • Dragon: Racka (spiral-horned sheep)
> 
> ~.~.~
> 
> Side Note: In the middle ages, farm animals would normally sleep in the same house as their owners (the peasants). Pens for animals were rare and reserved for the wealthy.
> 
> P.S.: this is not edited.

**_Nearly two years ago…_ **

Belle puffed out her flushed cheeks as she looked about the one-roomed cruck house. It was a shabby peasant’s pied-à-terre, constructed from wattle and daub, limestone, straw, and wooden slabs. The jejune walls were ugly and mottled, and the only thing that gave them the tiniest bit of color were heavy tapestries over the glassless windows. Well, those were obviously the first to go. Once new tapestries could be found to replace them. Hopefully that’ll be once spring comes…. 

She was to call this place home, now.

So much had happened since she fled from Gaston’s edifice, from her father’s best interest. Days were spent driving herself mad over the great unknown, paranoid out of her wit’s end and sick with worry and self-reproach. Belle had traveled on foot for weeks, a month at the most, snatching up any scrap of food or coin she could lay hands on. Why, the slip of a girl thought, did she think she’d get by with just her smarts? She felt like an ass, thinking she could get a job and start a new life of her own! But, this had been her decision, her choice. 

And it nearly cost Belle her very life.

Men often stared her down when she’d come skipping into town, eyeing her with mixtures of suspicion, curiosity, tenderness, and… other kinds of things Belle’d rather not mention. Gods, she’d been a fool to not expect this! Strangers dressed in dark, dirty clothes would stalk her along alleyways of villages, on roads, in taverns. It made her feel fear, _true_ fear... but, she wasn’t completely alien to that. 

How on earth had she concluded that leaving Gaston meant leaving the lechery of men? Had her books taught her nothing? But thank the gods a fellow young woman her age and her grandmother lent a warm bed to her one night, and handed her a dagger to guard off certain behaviors. 

The dagger was useful in more ways than one, and did help on occasion, but one girl with one weapon was not sufficient enough to a crowd of men. A drunken crowed of men who followed her out of an inn and cornered her right outside of town. 

Then and there, Belle thought she’d be forced to succumb to the horrors warned by her nursemaids, who told violent stories in hushed voices and pitying eyes. 

But, no. Belle was saved from that.

And she was saved by a queen, of all things!

Before she knew it, she was being “fretted” over by the queendom’s ruler, the widowed Queen Regina. She was kind to the young woman, however arrogant she may seem… The queen even offered her a job. A special job, one that she said she’d only give to someone loyal and of high moral standards. Someone not afraid to get their hands a little dirty.

_"My dear, there are two kinds of people. Sheep and wolves - those who kill and those who get killed. However, I am in need of some who is... neither. Do you understand, child? Can you watch and protect the lowly, mindless sheep of my lands?"_

Belle fit the bill, apparently, and the next thing she knew, a series of necessities were thrusted into her arms; work-boots, work-dresses, a shepherd’s crook, and a sheep who didn’t look anymore interested in this job than she was.

Yet, with this job, she'd have her own home, a sheep pen, and two whole acres of land to call her own. 

First off, Belle hadn’t a clue when it came to the shepherd’s trade. A lady had no need to know such things… But now, she couldn’t read enough books to prepare her for a life of modest solitude.

She looked up at the open doorway as she sat on a wicker chair at a small round table. It was the only furniture besides the featherbed and a ratty divan.

One sheep stood outside her doorway. He was brown furred but mottled with the gray markings of a wolf’s, and had a black legs and a nose. Queen Regina said his name was Wolfe. What were male sheep called, again? Rams? And female’s, ewes? Was that right? How was Belle ever going to remember all this!?

Wolfe plodded in and stood beside his new handler, nudging a shy black nose to her knee. He then began to nibble at her skirts with the upmost tenderness. His wide and sad eyes met hers in something akin to empathy.

Were sheep normally so… affectionate? Caring? Belle didn’t know, but…

That was the first comfort _anyone_ had given to her in ages.

And like that, Belle was on her knees before the ram, fiercely hugging his neck and sobbing wretchedly into his coarse fleece as the weight of her new life came crashing down upon her.

If sheep were the only kind things in this world, then Belle would gladly shepherd millions of them.

~.~.~.~.~

**_The Present_**  

Queen Regina was the widow of the late King Leopold’s kingdom – now it was her queendom. The woman has been queen since Belle entered womanhood, and it didn’t seem like she was stepping down from her throne anytime soon. She hasn’t remarried, appointed someone to rule in her absence, or selected a new sovereign to take her place once she draws her last breath. Naturally, a queen or king didn’t immediately jump out of mourning a day after their spouse’s death, but it looked as though the queen had gone to her late husband’s funeral and never left. 

Not once has Belle seen her in anything other than black. 

So, it goes to say that it was no surprise that once the queen popped the carriage door open, she unfurled herself in a billow of black finery. Queen Regina lifted her head, perfectly powered and painted, and met Belle’s gaze with an uppishly rakish smile. The shepherdess bowed her head and moved across the field faster, coming to her territory’s fence and sipping out, locking the gate behind her. With polite assistants from her equally black and stoic knights, the queen sashayed down the carriage steps and headed to Belle. The widow and her entire entourage looked like a pack of hungry ravens coming in for fresh offal.

“There she is!” Her Majesty crowed, sounding haughtily sweet with condescending pompousness. She sauntered over the dirt pasture road, indifferent to the wide peasant pasture or the late morning’s warm spring fog. “My favorite little shepherdess.”

“Your Majesty,” Belle greets, lifting the ends of her skirts as she curtsied. “I am most honored by your visit. It’s been too long.” 

The queen waved the girl’s politeness off with an elegant, black-gloved hand. “Indeed it has. But relax, my dear, such formalities is simply down right silly in the company of a friend. Have you been well? My, look at you – you’re so thin! You really must put some meat on those bones,” she said with a devil-may-care tone of voice, tapping the side of her nose like an old, all-knowing, teasing mother. She firmly placed an arm across Belle’s shoulders to steer her down the road bordering her pasture. A long silken black sleeve dazzling with diamonds draped across the shepherdess’s bust and left arm. The queen’s dark parasol shielded little of the sun’s clouded light. _It’s gonna rain today_.

“I’ve been well, Your Majesty. And you?”

Queen Regina’s lips pulled tight on her ivory face in a wicked smile. “I am doing fabulous, my dear, thank you for asking. I have another gift for you.”

Ah, yes, there it was. The queen always said that when a new sheep arrived.

Belle nodded, and gave a nervous laugh, but not too nervous, for she was used to the queen’s proud, bittersweet attitude. “Well, I’m always prepared for more sheep!” she cheered, genuinely smiling up to her eyes. Her smiles, while effortless in expressing her warmheartedness, had a certain affect on the queen. The older woman would pause for a split second, always brief and fleeting, and eye the brunette down as if suspicious of something.

Had anyone ever shown the queen genuine kindness, or solicitude? Belle didn’t know. 

“Yes,” the queen snips. “Follow me.”

With the queen’s hand now at the small of her back, Belle was led to the carriage, where, attached to the back, was a compacted cattle-wagon. A lumpy and black animal lying on its side baaed in annoyance within the livestock carrier, visibly trying to get free as if it was stuck.

“Her name is Dragon,” a hoity-toity Queen Regina said, flicking her wrist toward the nearest guard beside the cattle-wagon. He lumbered to open the latch and a another man came to ease the gate down. It formed a ramp for the animal to walk on.

What Belle saw first was horns.

Very tall, and very impressive horns.

The sheep was solid black, save for a few flaxen hairs Belle deduced was due to age. Two long spiraling horns perched on either side of its head, stretching back like rods, and the color of ink. The impressive specimen scrambled to stand, but the guards had to take hold of either horn to get it unstuck.

“Dragon,” Belle echoed, nodding. Dragon drunkenly stumbled out, frantically throwing its head around as if someone had shined a bright light into its eyes. She began approaching the black sheep with cautious steps. If she got too close while it was flipping about like this, those horns would most likely jab her.

“I haven’t checked in on our precious herd in sometime. Why don’t we go down and see the little beasties while you settle Dragon in her new home?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said respectfully, grasping one of Dragon’s horns. The ewe halted and jerked her head up, nearly nicking Belle’s chin. “Hey girly,” Belle said to Dragon, patting her neck. “Ready to meet your new family?”

Dragon’s glassy eyes got huge then, freezing beneath the shepherdess’s hand. Belle cooed and gave her a good scratch beneath her jawbone and neck. Her fur felt coarse and pyretic.

The shepherdess dragged the suddenly very stubborn animal into the gate of her pasture, thanking the knight who held the door open for her – well, he was holding it for the queen, but he was civil enough to do the same for her and Dragon. 

The knight stiffly nodded and followed them inside, flanking the women like a watchful shadow. The rest of the royal entourage stayed behind, a few lingering at the fence.

“Have you had any lambings since our last tête-à-tête?”

This was a common question of the queen’s. She never appeared angry that Belle said no every time, but always asked it during a visit. The shepherdess was curious as to how Her Majesty would ask when she laid down Snow and Charming’s good news.

“Yes, actually,” Belle said, unable to stop herself from smirking with coy pride. Finally, one little lamb to show the queen! She’d been in the sheep trade for two years, _two!_ , and not once in that time had a lamb been born besides Emma. She’s had experience with lambs with passing fellow shepherds, and Ruth taught her lots of things regarding them, but for the first time in forever Belle was the proud handler of her own little lamb. 

Queen Regina stopped. If not for her royal poise, the elder woman would be gawking. Well, the queen certainly was used to Belle’s lamb-less flock. “Oh?”

“Here!” Belle called, sending a few whistle commands for Rose to follow. The calico bitch perked her ears and yipped, dashing around the flock in the distance, slowly making her and the herd’s way to them. “Yep, one ewe lamb.”

Her elder was quiet for a moment, standing still with the most unreadable expression as she tapped a nail against her parasol’s handle. Finally, she turned to Belle and ~~demanded~~ asked, “Who are the parents?”

“Snow and Charming.”

“How old?”

“Three months. Her name is Emma.”

The queen pressed her lips together and turned toward the sheep, now slowing once down the hill. 

For reasons unknown to Belle, her herd did not like the queen.

The shepherdess, with Dragon in toe, approached the herd and fixed the black ewe before them. The flock’s eyes glanced back and forth between Dragon and Queen Regina. 

There were few in the flock who dared to get close to the queen. The two most obvious sheep were the alpha couple, Queenie and King. Queenie seemed to actually hate the queen, but King would get the closest. Wicked, Queenie’s only offspring huffed and puffed and curiously liked to follow the royal. While the herd’s new member stood shock-still before them, Belle slithered into the distracted herd and plucked Emma up.

Emma baaed shrilly as the girl scooped her up, limp in her arms. In turn, Snow snapped her head up at their handler and stared up with pure fear. The ewe whined out and jumped back onto her hind legs, jabbing her ribs as she leaned up against her. The shepherdess tsk-tsked the sheep down, slithering through the herd as they jostled together, baaing in union. 

Snow, however, was not to be denied. She bleated vehemently and bit down onto Belle’s skirts, chomping and tugging, jerking backwards. 

“Stop it, Snow!” the shepherdess fussed, exiting the herd after much fight. The mother ewe refused to relax, and Belle began to dreadfully regret leaving her crook near the broken fence.

The queen’s elegantly painted lips turned upward into a tight, catty smirk. She glided to the shepherdess, eyes sneadily moving back to her, Emma, and the panicky ewe beside her. Snow shook her head, mouth full of skirt. 

“Well, she certainty must give you gratification, as a shepherd,” Queen Regina said, raising a hand to pet Emma.

The royal widow hadn’t tried to touch the sheep before, when she dared to grace Belle’s herd with her brief yet heavy presence. In the best of days, the sheep were perfectly docile and quiet. At worst, some sheep may stray too far or rebel against Rose or their handler. Yet they had never given her reason to worry for strangers who wished to approach them. It _would_ be a lie, however, if Belle said they behaved indifferently when Her Majesty visited. 

But this was the first time a member of her flock got violent.

Charming, a muscular white and ram with impressive golden horns, charged the queen like a mad cow once her hand was a pinkie-finger’s distance away from his lamb’s rosé nose. With no crook to stop the ram, and Rose too busy keeping the herd in a circle, there was little Belle could do besides drop Emma in a clumsy manner, step forward, and shove the queen out of the charging Charming. 

“I am so, so sorry, Your Majesty—!!” Belle cried, frantically scrambling off of the older woman and offering help up. The knight accompanying them had prevented the worst of the ram’s attack by booting it in the jaw, causing Charming to stumble. 

Queen Regina hissed out, hand painfully squeezing Belle’s, “Can you not keep your own sheep from trying to run people over!?” 

Belle shook her head, shame and anxiety boiling in her throat. “N-no, they’re not like tha—“

The older woman raised and hand for silence, sharing hard at Charming who managed to regain balance, though stumbled back to his mate and offspring, grunting in small bleats of sheep-talk. Regina raked a hand over her hair and smoothed back a wild strand or two. “Just forget it. In the end they are nothing more than mindless animals.”

Belle gulped, timid beside her elder. Her Majesty’s knight silently approached the queen and offered the fallen parasol. She snatched it away and sharply turned on a heel. 

Well, the visit seemed over, now.

“Your Maje—“

Queen Regina turned a head over her shoulder, offering a sham of a smile, and met Belle’s worried gaze. “I’m fine, my dear,” she said with horribly fake cheer. “Just keep better control over the _sheep_.”

“Yes, Your Majesty…”

She turned and flipped her hair, carelessly waving for the shepherdess and knight. “Make sure Dragon settles in decently. I am… quite fond of her.”

“Right.”

The queen made idle conversation, snippy and demanding, until they reached the pasture’s gate once more. The sovereign turned and eyed the flock again, cautiously following Belle while shooting frightened eyes at the other woman. Rose barked happily and passed her mistress. The dog was more caught up with Dragon, thought, who tried walking in the opposite direction at first, but bites at her ankles forced her to follow. 

“One more thing,” the queen started, shoulders tense. “I’d like to receive regular updates from you regarding our newest member’s development. I want every detail you can squeeze out of her… Emma, wasn’t it?” dark honeyed eyes glanced down at the tiniest sheep, who was currently sandwiched between her parents.

The sheep bleated anxiously.

“Of course,” Belle said respectfully, dipping her head. 

The royal was silent for a moment before she turned her tight-lipped face toward the horizon, smirking as if remembering something amusing.

“I originally planned on giving you three sheep today, but I haven’t gotten my hands on the other two just quite yet. We’ll be seeing each other again soon. Until next time, my dear.”

Queen Regina exited the pasture in all her glittering raven glory, gliding back to her carriage. Her knight shoot the shepherdess one last look and gave up time to bow his head to her, but the queen snapped at his “incompetence” and he scampered to return to the high mistress.

Belle, motionless and tired and confused from the turn of events, silently watched the queen and her entourage rev up the royal horses and take off into the distance.

The shepherdess turned toward her flock. Her flock met her gaze.

“My goodness,” she whispered to herself as she lumbered acorss the pasture yet again, going to fetch her crook. The milk buckets were empty and turned over.

She paused at the gap in the fence, starting a dark trail into the forbidding woodlands.

Had any of this morning’s and last night’s events really happen? Was it a dream? Had she hit her head? No, no she hadn’t. 

She had met a satyr. A satyr named Rumplestiltskin. 

Things were so strange as of late… Belle looked back at her sheep.

Well, it was stranger in itself to find something stranger than her flock.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Despite the promise of tea, Belle didn’t see Rumple or any sign of the satyr until days later. 

Dragon did not settle into flock-life as easily as other sheep had. It was perfectly normal for newcomer sheep to get a bit aloof, mean, or worryingly skittish once put into Belle’s care. But with the newest ewe, there was more trouble than ever. 

Snow would completely avoid the long-horned ewe as if her life depended upon it, Aurora did the same but bolted in the opposite direction, and Queenie and Warrior refused to stop picking fights with her. Even Charming was hostile towards Dragon! The others just ignored her.

Dragon didn’t even try becoming familiar with her herd-mates. She always grazed the farthest and would lag behind the drove, and the naturally slow sheep, the pregnant ones, didn’t look too comfortable with the black ewe at their backs. 

Belle worried for her newest charge. Often, she tried getting close to the seasoned sheep when the flock was eating, but Dragon typically ignored her and walked away.

In the afternoons, if Belle didn’t have too many chores to do, she would take a book and read aloud in the pasture. Sheep would come and sit around her in the grass, lazily chewing turf and listening to their handler. The ones nearest to Belle would get to see the occasional picture. She tried not to sit near the more aggressive sheep or Hatter – they liked to bite the pages. 

Dragon would sit the farthest in those times, expectedly, but after a solid week of having been apart of Belle’s drove, she chose to sit herself right next to Belle.

The shepherdess was surprised. Yes, she was very glad the black ewe was coming out of her shell a bit, but Belle couldn’t help feel a bit of suspicion. As for why, she didn’t know.

The days grew hotter and the sheep’s fleeces grew thicker. They began to look miserable in their huge wooly coats. At this point, Belle knew what day was fast approaching.

Shearing Day.

Or, the day where Belle spends most of her time running like a madwoman in five different directions, grabbing at any sheep that dare near her. They knew what was coming when Belle walked out of her cottage with the big ole shearing blade. So, those evenings were spent rather hectically.

_I’ll shear them tomorrow,_ Belle thought as she snapped her book shut, settling it in her aproned lap. The sun was beginning to set, and Rose yawned on her perch on a small boulder. Dragon sat idly beside her, her dark warm wool pressed into her side. The shepherdess combed her fingers through the venerable ewe’s fluff, right behind an ear. Dragon didn’t seem to mind it, and settled her head over Belle’s knee. Her horns rose past the girl’s shoulders.

A certain flaxen lamb was walking, no, _teetering_ , a few feet before Belle.

The Piper’s words drifted back to Belle for the millionth time that week. If anything “odd happens”, she was to tell the satyr immediately. The Queen, however, wanted to know everything about Emma. 

Why was Emma drawing so much attention, Belle pondered as she watched the wobbly lamb approach her adopted yearling brother and then lie next to him.

Nothing “odd” had truelly happened to Emma since that incident at the satyr’s home. However, the lamb’s behavior had… changed, even just a little.

Emma was quieter. She was more patient. Although she no longer had to fight August over a teat, as he had taken to turf like the other sheep, she use to always suckle Snow with fierce abandon, vigorous in all she did besides play or make trouble. But here she was, waiting politely for her mother rather than take what she wanted. Emma also started staying closer to Belle.

Snow and Charming, for their part, took notice of Emma’s behavior as of late. 

Belle didn’t know what to do for her only lamb. August, while just a tiny and frail thing when she found in just outside the gate of the pasture, never caused this much anxiety to get drawn to him. She thought of visiting Ruth, but something kept her in her territory.

A certain _satyr_ something.

Rumple had yet to visit Belle. She remembered the satyr told her to just call out his name to summon him, but she remained wary. Obviously she knew she wouldn’t run up and embrace the goat-man like long-separated lovers if he _did_ come, (one good reason being his behavior before disappearing without a trace, and they just met the previous night) Belle still wanted the company. He was nice to her, at least most of the time, and had a more-than-able, sharp-witted mind to keep up with her in ways Gaston’s hadn’t. She honestly desired to speak with him again. Rumple was complex, mysterious, wonderfully unique… Well, Belle thought with a light blush, if she didn’t know better, she’d think she was smitten!

It was also true that Belle was lonely. Very lonely. Of course she loved her sheep and sheepdog, but she wanted real, human interaction from time to time. Ruth was lovely company, and she learned much about her current profession from her elder, but it wasn’t the same as spending time with a girl her own age. 

But now, there was this attractive, silver fox of a satyr living in the woodlands she once revered like the Devil. Not terribly far, yet it felt like an ocean between them… No wonder she wanted his company! 

Belle shook her head and stood up, startling Dragon a bit. She felt silly, like some love-struck filly driving herself and to the brink of tears because her sweetheart hadn’t replied to a love letter soon enough. He was a satyr; she was human. He was indeed a kind man, but Belle would be an absolute fool if she let herself forget the way he grabbed her last week.

Even if she had mortally offended Rumple by uttering the name of the shepherds’ god, it gave him no excuse to jostle her around. Belle had made a mistake like that once before. She was not about to do it again.

The sheep that had gathered around Belle for today’s storytime were deeply asleep. Dusk was falling upon them rather quickly, and dark storm clouds rolled in the dimmed distance. The shepherdess stretched and yawned, whistling for Rose to round the herd up.

It was going to rain. Belle felt it in her bones. Even if Queen Regins payed her handsomely and beyond the working woman’s income, she still needed a little more coin in order to build that barn she was saving up for.

In fact, after this season’s shearing and milking, she could go ahead and set an order for one.

“Home, Rose,” Belle ordered the sheepdog, who barked and steered the herd beside Belle.

When it rained or stormed, the sheep stayed in the cruck house. It wasn’t unusual for livestock to sleep in the same house as their handlers for safety. And not everyone was lucky enough to own a pen, either.

They shuffled into the one-room building, dispersing out and gravitating toward piles of hey and straw on the ground. Closing the Dutch door behind her and latching both upper and lower halves, Belle dropped her crook and dramatically tore off her clothing. Unlacing the apron, the bodice, the dress, the petticoat, garters – before long, Belle was standing in her dowdy ole night gown with a rather sheepish audience. 

It wasn’t as if the flock hadn’t seen their bookish handler in the nude before. After learning that they didn’t get ankle or ear bites from Rose if they followed Belle obediently, they often accompanied her to the nearby stream, where the shepherdess liked to bathe. When it was stormy or cold out, they came inside the cruck house instead of the pen right outside. A one-room building didn’t offer much privacy. Besides, it wasn’t as if Belle needed to protect her modest before them.

Queenie claimed the divan like normally, with King and Wicked at the foot on the floor. Most of the “single” sheep had taken to the piles of straw and hay strewn about, noisily settling in for the night. Charming, Hatter, and Princely slept at the foot of Belle’s bed with their missus’s. Wolfe, Ruby, Warrior, and Aurora were the only ones to sleep beside Belle. 

“Dragon,” Belle said, pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on the table, “Why don’t you sleep in my bed tonight?”

Dragon just stood in the middle of the wide room with deeply suspicious eyes. Belle laughed and called her a scaredy-cat, in which the long-horned ewe bleated in distaste and hopped atop the end of Belle’s bed.

Nodding, the shepherdess counted all twenty-one sheep. No pun intended. 

Emma was with her mama. She hasn’t lived long enough to see winter, but August was well aware of the chilly colder seasons, so he kept close to Snow and Charming’s side. The blonde lamb hasn’t had too many chances of saying in Belle’s home. The shepherdess knew the babe would have a blast at exploring…

But Emma wasn’t exited like usually when exploring.

Emma remained completely indifferent.

Belle frowned as she watched the sad little lamb sit beside her mother and brother on the floor before her bed. She met Belle’s eye with big black orbs.

Belle reached out and touched Emma’s nose. No fever. She didn’t have a runny nose, either.

So, what was wrong with Emma? Did it have to do with that green stuff she fell into at the satyr’s cottage? Should she call Rumple?

The young woman sighed and walked to extinguish the candles. At that very moment, a window blew against the window’s tapestries in an ominous, low howl, and rain drizzled against the straw and wood-panel roof. Every now and then, a raindrop or two would leak inside. 

She wiped off her dusty feet before sliding into bed, wriggling to get under the furs and blankets. Wolfe and Ruby squirmed beside her to accommodate her presence beside them. Soon, Belle was burring her face in her first sheep’s warm and familiar fleece, cozily cuddled beside Ruby with one arm thrown over her. Warrior typically laid across her feet like a big furry hot water bottle, with Aurora beside her, but tonight she slept on the farthest left side, while Dragon nestled next to Belle’s legs on the right of the bed.

Sighing, she whispered a goodnight into the darkness of her home, and some sheep bleated in response. And like that, Belle drifted off into dreamland with whirling thoughts of sick little lambs and if she should call the Meddler to come help, to come fix the loneliness in her heart, all the while sharing pleasantries with magical creatures...

~.~.~.~.~.

In the middle of the night, Belle was suddenly thrown back into the world of the living. Wild, confused, and panicky was the shepherdess as noises of pain and terror filled her ears. She barely had time to processes what was happening.

Someone was screaming bloody murder.

Belle threw the blankets off of her, the entire herd already waking up and scrambling to understand, bleating with frightened cries that tore at the heart strings. Chaos was the only word she could describe the situation as sheep jostled into a cowering huddle in one side of the room, only one brave wooly soul or two standing beside Belle, or in the “scene” itself. 

The shepherdess hurled herself out of bed and toward the middle of the room, to wherever the sound was coming from.

There, on the floor, coated in bloody film, illuminated by a flash of lightning, was the writhing, naked, mangled body of a young girl.


	4. Sheeple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a horrifying revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If it wasn’t obvious enough that I love Scottish dialect and old Scot sayings, then I’m admitting to it now.
> 
> P.S.: Is it Rump _le_ stiltskin, or Rump _el_ stiltskin? Rumple or Rumpel? I’ve seen all four in various settings. Idk which to use. What do you guys prefer—or, more importantly, which is technically right? Wiki says Rumpelstiltskin, but the fandom site spells it the second way…. Help!

Belle stood still as a statue. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , in her shepherd training had taught her what to do in a situation like _this_.

The girl on the floor let out a sickening shriek that rapidly morphed into a shrill scream. She near-violently threw her limbs to and fro, panicking and disturbing hay. Her skin, beneath the greenish bloody film, was pale and pinkish. A mop of lightly curled blonde hair sat atop of her head, tangled and sweaty and mucky. 

Snow and Charming were the only ones beside the girl. August was off to the side, closer to Belle, Wolfe, Dragon, and Warrior, visibly quivering with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. The two parent sheep bleated in hysteria, sniffing the girl over and over again as if it was a mantra, stomping their front hooves repeatedly against the floor as they circled her. Snow suddenly kicked her head back and cried out with such emotion, such fear, that it was this and this alone that caused Belle to shake from her fear-induced peralizis. 

The shepherdess flung herself to the ground and gathered the girl up, forcing herself not to cringe as the slick green film coating the little girl clung to her hands.

“ _BAAAAURRRRMMMMPH!_ ” The girl wailed, thrashing with all the strength she had. Her scent was pungent, distinctive, yet oddly pleasant, and it instantly reminded Belle of Emma’s birth. It was the scent of a newborn.

Belle pushed back some of the girl’s hair, ignoring the whimpers and trying to get herself heard over her panic and pain. She cooed and crooned the girl, desperately trying to sooth her for only a moment. Belle needed to figure out what on earth just happened, how, and why.

Wide, wide green eyes shot open and stared back at Belle’s equally frightened blue ones.

Neither moved for five whole seconds.

Then the girl _bleated_.

And it was _Emma’s_ bleat. _Emma’s!_

With the girl vigorously squirming in her lap, squealing on the top of her new lungs, it was hard to truly look at her, but, with a feverish stare, Belle let her eyes scan the younger’s body. She wasn’t scrawny—excluding the age, the girl seemed quite gracefully built, albeit with childish plumpness still in her face and limbs. Speaking of limbs… The girl’s legs were disfigured. 

Her knees were too narrow, too slight, and her calf bent backwards in an unnatural, inhuman way. Her heels were too high, ankles too…

Belle relized that her legs weren’t even human, then. No, not human. Not entirely, anyway. This girl had a hock, and a fetlock! 

The legs of a… _sheep?!_

“Emma,” she said, deadpanned as she grasped onto apprehension. 

Emma, a half-human, half-lamb Emma, mewled so pitifully before going limp in her arms. 

Terrified and confused, Belle screamed out, “ _Rumplestiltskin!_ ”, and repeated the name until the satyr appeared.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Rumplestiltskin came without a sound. 

He startled a yelp of shock from the trembling shepherdess, though without truly meaning to. He did not seem as nonplussed as Belle. Mutely, he studied the motionless child her lap. 

“I expected as much,” he crooned out finally, trotting around her with an ebullient, thoughtful expression. Belle watched him with large watery blue eyes, unable to tear her eyes from the way his legs moved; most especially, how his hooves turned inward toward his fetlock as he walked. 

The satyr wore a hard leather redingote this time instead of the soft-leather tailcoat. It had spikes, or feathers, adoring the shoulders and collar. It makes Belle think of poisonous plants.

“Ex-Expected?” Belle hiccuped after finally finding her voice. Giggling through his nose, the satyr smiled a mysterious smile at her. His wavy hair cascaded around his horns and face, soft-brown buck ears twitching with interest. It distracted her from the moment for a time being. 

_Why_ was it that he looked so much more composed than her? This was her flock! She should be the ready one—ready to handle any stressful situation come her way! Plus, why was he so… impish, now? Where did the kind goatman go from earlier? Shaking her head to rid herself of the childish envy and heartfelt uncertainty, Belle clutched the half-human Emma to her chest protectively. Snow nuzzled her daughter from under Belle’s arm, and Charming stood between his family and the satyr with admirable fierceness. The ram scrutinized the goatman with wary regard.

“Yes, expected,” Rumplestiltskin chirped like a gleeful children, clapping his hands—a heavy contrast to the atmosphere of Belle’s home. He steeples his hands and adds, “That dreadful stuff yer dear wee one fell into? If you remember.”

“Yes, I remember…” Belle wanted to _scream_ at his ease. 

“Come, dearie,” he then said, motioning for Belle to rise, which she did with every bone in her body shaking with fear. The satyr’s expression relaxed, somewhat, once his eyes locked onto hers. He placed his hands tentatively on her elbows and guided her to the bed; Ruby, Warrior, and Wolfe followed at their heels.

“But, Emma—“ 

“Shh shh, sweetheart, Ah’ll take care of it. Just ye watch.”

Belle, limp with terror, sat dumbly on the edge of her cot with her flock timidly migrating closer. They clustered around her, Dragon the only one daring to near the billy besides Snow and Charming (who appeared to care not what Rumplestiltskin was doing, just as long as it didn’t involve Emma getting harmed anymore so than she already was). Wolfe laid his head on Belle’s knee, flickering his gaze back and forth from the scene to Belle. She patted his head absently.

Bending down to the lamb girl, Rumplestiltskin asked, “When did she turn—“

“Just now,” Belle voiced. “Woke me up.”

“Mm. Has she’d any symptoms out of the ordinary, before this?”

“…Emma has been quieter. Her parents and brother dote on her more. She seemed ill.”

The satyr waved the concerned sheep parents off Emma and settled her upon his knobby, wooly knees. Kneeling, he brushed matted blond hair from her face and felt around her head and under her chin. He felt around her velveteen, elfish ears with the gentlest of touches. “Has she retched?”

“No.”

“Has she spoken?”

Belle hesitated. “She was screaming when I, uh, found her. But nothing coherent.”

“Did you witness the change?”

“No.”

“Has she suckled since you retired for the night?”

“No.”

Rumplestiltskin nodded and carefully lifted Emma up in his arms, ignoring Snow and Charming’s baas of disapproval. He settled her on the bed, pushing Ruby and Warrior off.

He was silent in his ministrations, ears turned down as a serious scowl came as a shadow across his face. Belle, clutching Wolfe, watched the satyr plod with purpose about the cottage. He fetched a rag and took it to the water pitcher on the table, wetting it substantially before wringing it out. Water trickled between his long, nimble fingers and hands, splashed back into the pitcher. 

He cleaned Emma down with quick yet gentle wipes, then cleaned the rag a second time—only to return to Belle and dab at the sweat on her brow. She nearly melted at the contact of cool water on her hot, sticky skin. It was a comfort that brought a spell of dizziness upon her.

“There, now. You alright?” His accent, though thick and tricky to understand sometimes, was soothing to the brunette. She would happily lay back and let him take care of everything, but her crook leaning against the doorframe reminded her of her position. Belle had not the privilege to relax, especially right now.

Belle sniffled, wiping her face once Rumplestiltskin took the rag away. “I… still don’t understand…”

The satyr puffed. “Nae, ye dinnae. Come’ere, dearie,” Cautiously, he raised a hand to pat her shoulder, coming nearer to sit beside her. Sheep baaed in upset as he brushed some aside. 

Rumplestiltskin had kept his end of the deal he made with her. If anything out of the ordinary were to happen, she would call him. She did call him, and he came. Now, without so much as a demand for instructions, he went about her business and made it his. Belle was touch-starved for human contact for what seemed like forever—The queen, despite all her niceties, could not fill in that need for comfort. Yet behold, this satyr managed to melted her heart within their second meeting. 

Wordlessly, Belle sobbed and near-violently threw herself to him, climbing into his lap. She tucked her head beneath his chin to bury her face on the space where shoulder met neck. Belle may not know Rumplestiltskin beyond formal introductions and niceties, but Rumplestiltskin was the only humanly cognitive being around for miles, besides Her Majesty and her band of ravens. Sheep Belle may love, but she couldn’t sit down and talk to them – at least, not without it being a one-sided conversation. 

She was wretched; tears smeared across her flaming cheeks and the rough leather of the satyr’s coat. 

The satyr squirmed against the shepherdess awkwardly. When it was clear she wasn’t going to get off right away, he brought a tentative hand to pat her quaking back. Timid words of comfort fell from his lips, but they were muffled against the hair of Belle’s crown and became soft warbled croons in her ears. “There, there… dinnae ye greet.”

Taking a breath, Belle gathered her strength and managed to pull her head away from Rumplestiltskin’s shoulder. The auburn-brunette wasn’t happy about pulling away, but the black prickles of his coat were no longer digging into her face. 

Belle focused her daze on Emma.

Emma had transformed into a cute little thing. She was pale, with tangled yet beautiful tresses of dusty flax haloing her head. A similar color of hair (fur) dusted across her navel and bladder, trailing daintily over pre-pubescence bare hips and young legs. Legs which had… hocks, fetlocks, and hooves. Fur was curled and coiled gently at those sheeplike joints. Yet, besides those areas, Emma did not sport as much fur/hair as Rumplestiltskin did. He had it all over his legs, just skimming his pelvis. 

“Please,” Belle began, finally loosening her death-grip on the satry (who’s lap she practically sat it). “Tell me what is wrong with her.”

“Wrang?” Rumplestiltskin echoed in his deep foreign burr, tilting his head. “Nowt wrang.”

“ _Please_ tell me what’s wrong.”

The satyr sighed deeply. “Yer wee one’s … changed. Trans—Transformed.”

“ _Transformed?_ Transformed as in _how?_ Rumple, I can clearly see that she—“

Rumplestiltskin shook his head and fidgeted. Belle, though, was not to be denied, and stood her ground even as the satyr grew tired of her and pushed her off him. “You will not lie to me about this, Rumple.”

“Ah’d ne’er lie tae ye.”

Belle narrowed her eyes. The satyr was getting more and more difficult to understand. She wasn;t sure if it was due to nerves, or he was purposefully thickening it to keep her unawares.

“No, but you’d avoid it. You avoided all my personal questions last time. You _also_ sounded much more coherent.”

Abruptly, the satyr shot up. His cloven hooves kicked up dust off the rug around her cot. Refusing to meet her gaze, Rumplestiltskin turns his back on her as he steeples his hands. “Wean’s fault fer hoofing ‘bout where she’s naw suppose tae. Besides. Wit if Ah cannae say?”

“Then I’ll stop being your friend.”

Rumplestiltskin suddenly whipped his head to her, brown eyes wide in nonplus. “ _Eht?_ ”. Good, he wasn’t expecting that, Belle thought to herself with light victory.

She would have laughed, or even smiled at his shyness, but it was too dark and too serious a time for something of the like. So, seeing that she’d poked a soft spot, Belle attacked it with vigor.

“Yes, Rumple, your friend. Surely, we are friends? I would very much like to get to know you better, but I cannot do that if you continue to keep me in the dark. This is _my_ flock, _my_ responsibility. I have been a shepherd for two years, and Emma is the first lamb I’ve had. My mistress, the Queen, she—“

The satyr cut her off, expression glum. “Yer mistress is persistent on lambs, aye?”

“Of course. Breeding them is my main goal, but as you can see,” Belle gave a breathy, hysterical laugh, “I can’t even do that! No! My lambs just—just—just—just _turn_ into freaking _people—!_ ”

“Little shepherdess,” Rumplestiltskin interrupted her yet again with a firm hand in a halting gesture. “Listen tae me. If you want tae keep Emma, don’t tell Queen Fille de Joie a single thing.”

Ignoring the satyr’s rude remark toward her queen, Belle prompts, “But what about the lambs to come? Ella and Alice…both are expecting.” She motioned toward the two pregnant ewes in the back of the flock. 

Rumplestiltskin stayed silent.

Belle was ready to pull her hair out. Standing up with a jolt, sheep squeeked in surprise and scuttled backwards from the shepherdess. “Blast it, Rumplestiltskin! If you don’t tell me what’s wrong with Emma this very second, I’ll throw you out by your horns!”

The satyr had the mind to look both hunted and affronted by her words; however, he stood ramrod straight with his hands together.

“Are you seriously going to _not_ tell me?”

The satyr scrunches his nose. Takes a breath. “Ah—“

“Rumplestiltskin, if you so much as thicken one word in that ridiculous accent of yours, I will not hesitate to slap the daylights out of you.” 

He glowered. “Fine. Dinnae—don’t tell me you never asked for this.” The satyr sat down with a heavy sigh. Belle followed him, not too friendly at the moment to sit close, but enough so that she could reach out to touch him. The satyr was silent for a long, dreadful minute before speaking. 

“Queen Regina has many enemies… naturally. She also likes to experiment.”

Belle blinked owlishly.

“Experiment?”

Rumplestiltskin sighed again and stood up, slowly strutting to the window. Belle does not move to follow. Visibly desolate, the satyr peeks behind the tapestries at the storm outside, wind ruffling hair about his horns. When he spoke again, he did so with slow, frightening clarity. “I must study Emma further to know anything for sure. She’s not dying. I can assure you this much, shepherdess. The concoction Emma fell into was an elixir Her Majesty buys from me frequently. You know who I am, lass. Think. I’m guilty for making the elixir, but not for the hands that use it.”

Belle said nothing, and collapsed back onto the cot. “…So, this happened because of that green stuff she got into, when we were at your cottage? That much is true, correct?”

The satyr nodded.

“Yet Regina buys this elixir? For what purpose?”

“To humble her enemies. After all, there are two types of people in the world: wolves and sheep. Those who kill and those who get killed. Yet Her Majesty’s heart is much too _kind_ to sentence her foes to the gallows. She sends them to the fields instead, where she can watch them haplessly cower in flocks.” 

“That’s—”

Belle’s heart plummeted. 

**_“I’ve always felt there were two kinds of people. Wolves and sheep. Those who kill and those who get killed.”_** The queen’s words echoed in the shepherdess’s head.

Her heart hammered, and she looked down at the huddling crowd of sheep around her bed, avoiding the satyr as if he was death itself. 

“Are you saying…” Belle put a hand to her fluttering heart, feeling sick. “Are you saying that the queen turns her enemies into _sheep?_ ”

The satyr said nothing. Just leaned against the wall to peak behind the tapestry. 

A wretched silence was stretched out between them. Belle’s face went pale as a corpse. Bile burned her throat. Horrified tears prickled her eyes.

She looked toward her sheep. Wolfe, head still on her knee, stared back with watery bovine eyes. The others stood still, staring in a similar manner.

Everything suddenly made sense. The unusual intelligence, behavior, personalities—

Belle wasn’t a shepherdess. 

She was never shepherding sheep.

She was shepherding people.


	5. Bye Bye Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is swept up into the chaos. Rumple tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wullae: will have

Consciousness comes slowly. 

Somehow, Belle had managed to fall asleep. However lonely and desperate and confused and terrified she was, the young woman found it strangest that she actually managed to sleep.

The storm had passed during the night. Scents of dew, late spring, and heavy storm filtered in through the tarnished tapestries and the cracks of her hovel. A light fog gleamed through a ray of morning light through an opening from the window, shining down and across Belle’s face. She squinted her eyelids and wriggled beneath the covers for warmth. Against her a warm, lithe body squirmed in protest, and a tiny hand pawed her breast.

Belle’s mind jogged into full speed at that. Bewildered blue eyes open as quick as lightning, and the shepherdess shot up and threw the furs and quilts off her, ignoring the few baas of protest around her. 

Emma, pink-skinned and hooved and tailed, wriggled around like a newborn beside her. She flickered her eyes open after a moment of stillness from Belle, and look around with curiosity. It wasn’t long before Emma’s green orbs landed on Belle’s blue eyes, wide and innocent. The tiny girl looked no older than a three-year-old human.

Belle blinked. Emma blinked. 

“Can… Can you understand me?” Belle asked in a whisper, confused as to what to do with this… Emma-satyr. The half-toddler seemed to not process Belle’s words, merely scrunching up her rosy button nose. Her lamb-like ears quiver. Maybe it was the cold. 

“The lass still hones the mind of a sheep, dearie. Tha’ was how she was born to think,” said an accented voice from across the room. Whipping around, Belle’s frantic blue eyes landed on Rumple, who was lazily reclining on Queenie’s spot: the ratty red divan. As for Queenie, she was under the table, looking very much annoyed. The rest of Belle’s flock crowed around her cot. Some of the sheep clustered around the sides of her cot, and some were atop the cot itself. Belle could hardly move without pushing someone off.

Some _one_.

Wincing as the memories from last night caught up to her, Belle pulls up her knees and tugs her nightgown down. She was both shameful and mortified; goodness, she used to _bath_ in front of these sheep—these _people_! Ahh!

Belle inquires with a shaky tone. “H-How long have you been here?”

“Since you coorie dooned. Dead tae the world, mind.”

Belle touched her forehead, feeling faint. “So… this, this is really happening right now? Not, not just some bizarre dream?” 

“I assure you, sweet nymph, if you dream of me than it most surely is a nightmare.”

Belle chose not to comment on that, flustered and mad at him all at once. It was a nightmare already that her lamb turned into a person, much less discovering that her entire flock was actually _human!_

She shooed the sheeple off her side of bed and climbed off the opposite side of Emma. Snow and Charming, already awake, stood beside her on the other side, nosing their baby with big frightened eyes. Emma was responsive to them, and rolled over onto her stomach, stretching out her neck to touch her nose with her parents’.

“What am I suppose to do?”

Silent for a moment, Rumple rubbed his chin before answering. “Go ‘bout yer busy-ness as normal, I’d think.”

“But _how_?”

“Nae clue.”

Belle wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hurt something. She wanted to crawl into a hole and die there. But, for the life of her, she couldn’t find the energy.

“What should I to do?”

The satyr quirked an ear up. With his accent thickened, he says, “Dae whit ye wish tae dae, dearie.”

For once, Belle didn’t know.

~.~.~.~.~

Rumple was quiet throughout the morning. Belle didn’t bother pressing him for answers – it was likely he wouldn’t respond. Instead, she became like a walking corpse, and the satyr had to practically lead her about her day, holding her hand as if she was a small dependent child. She was scared, very scared, and Rumple had wordlessly offered up his help without complaint. So, Belle chose to cling to him like a pliable doll. Stranger or no, Rumple was an ally. Probably. Hopefully. She tried taking comfort in that.

Belle did not object at the satyr practically took over her job, telling her to dress and go on as if nothing happened last night. So Belle clothed herself (she got Rose to shoo the sheep out to get dressed, this time), ate a little bread from her dwindling larder, and took her crook to go be Her Majesty’s Shepherdess. 

Emma was still trying to understand that she was no longer a lamb. In vain, the lamb-girl tried walking on all fours, and did so quite awkwardly, butt up and hands fisted tightly as she “trotted” around. Her parents followed her like the ever-dotting parents they were, constantly sniffing her over or nipping at her ears and tail, as if checking for injury. They made the most painful sounds of distress. As for August, he kept a close eye on his sister, but chose to keep his distance by staying beside Belle.

Belle nearly wept again when Emma went to feed like usual. Snow and Emma had to shuffle about as the blonde attempted to draw milk from her mother. The shepherdess cringed as the near-human Emma took her fill of milk—raw as it is. Rumple did nothing to prevent Emma from this.

Rose, for the most part, went unnoticed and tended to her duties. The calico sheepdog wanted nothing to do with Rumple and avoid him like the plague. Correspondingly, most of the sheep remained wary of Rumple and chose to stay a good few feet away. 

Emma was the most accustomed to the satyr by this point. She seemed to get it at some point or another that they had something very much in common, now. The lamb-girl would stare at the satyr’s legs, then at her own, and whined something akin to confused, hopeless distress. Snow hovered constantly, while Charming lumbered around like an angry papa bear.

The only ones brave enough to approach the satyr were Emma and her parents, Hatter, Dragon, Wicked, and Queenie. 

Hatter was actually _friendly_ toward Rumple! It didn’t surprise Belle as much as it should; Hatter was an oddball in and of himself, but this was different. He’d bound around the satyr—almost happy in a way Belle had only ever seen him like when he was around Alice—and pranced around him, sometimes nipping his heels. Rumple was not amused by it. 

Dragon seemed to have no problem with the satyr. She managed to get a suspicious look out of Belle when the ewe decided to up and sit next to the satyr when the two sat down to watch the flock graze. The black ewe sat in front of Belle and Rumple, looking calm for the most part. 

Warrior stayed close to Belle; though torn between Aurora’s protection, it appeared, the four-horned ewe stuck beside the shepherdess while sending hateful glares toward the satyr. 

Warrior wasn’t the only one to visibly hate Rumple, either.

Queenie and Wicked were beginning to get on Belle’s nerves. The alpha sheep’s bossy personality was nothing new, nor was the Mule ewe. 

Who were all these people, Belle wondered? What were they like before the queen turned them all into sheep? Did any of them know Rumple?

Belle sighed, letting Rose shepherd Wicked back to the flock when the ewe charged the satyr for the fourth hundredth time. Wicked was an auburn Mule ewe with a strange fungus hue in her fleece. No matter how many times Belle washed her down, the green-tinted wool Wicked sported was determined to stay. 

With Wicked subdued for a moment longer, Belle turned to the satyr. “Are you going to talk now, Rumple?”

“Now?” he asked, sheepishly.

“What are we going to do about Emma?” Belle motioned toward the lamb-girl in question, watching her crawl around amongst her herd-members. “I think clothes would be good.”

“I dinnae see why not. Your bairn shouldn’ta go ‘bout in the buff,” he said, and raised a hand toward Emma. To Belle’s surprise, a cloud of purple formed around the toddler and, right before her eyes—poof! Emma was suddenly clothed in a little sleeveless red dress that fell to her knobby knees. The sheeple around her baaed in shock, and they all leapt backwards to get away. Squealing, Emma looked down at herself in delight, plucking at the soft cotton dress she wore. 

“Rumple, I’m scared.”

“Yes…”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Ah know.”

Belle let out a shaky sigh. She turned to the distance, studying the Queen’s road. “What will I do the next time Her Majesty gets back? She was quite interested in Emma before.”

Rumple sniffed. He stood up, the leathers of his coat creaking as he did so. Ears flicking, he states, “Ah wullea tae take her.”

“What?!” Belle scrambled to stand beside him, horrified. The grass rubbed green smears on her apron. “Why!?”

“Her Majesty’ll just poke an’ probe her. With me, Emma’ll be safe. I’ll work on turning her tae rights.” 

“And what is rights, Rumple? A sheep or a person? You said so yourself that these—“ he angrily gestures to her flock “—are actual people. Emma was born a lamb. What is she? Sheep or human?”

Her satyr watched Emma stoically. With eerie clearance, he says, “Ah dinnae know, dearie. Ah dinnae know.”

~.~.~.~.~

Rumple left in a purple haze with the declaration of returning tonight to take Emma. It was clear that the toddler’s sheep parents understood this, and baaed so badly it sounded like human wailing. Disturbed, Belle relied on Rose to keep the flock at bay before she shut them in the fold for the day.

“Come on, Emma, like this…”

The shepherdess was with Emma, Charming and Snow nearby, and was trying to teach her toddler charge how to walk. Belle held Emma’s tiny hands in hers, coaxing the girl to move forward on her feet—she means, hooves. 

Emma’s ears were turned back in confusion, glaring at this ridiculous dance of theirs. She stumbled and twisted, huffing in frustration as she trotted forward, slowly, as she was forced to only use her legs. Her legs trembled like the limbs of a colt.

“This is so messed up,” Belle cried, letting Emma go after they managed a few feet. Emma hiccupped, putting her hands back on the ground to crawl. The shepherdess turned to her flock, who were grazing or staring at her. “What!?”

The starers jerked their muzzles away and coyly went back to grazing. Wolfe was the only one to keep her gaze.

Belle motioned toward him, and he visibly understood. She left Charming and Snow to walk a little bits away, allowing her first sheep to come to her. Rose came to get Wolfe, but Belle orders her to stay with the others. The bitch did not give her a look of human-like understanding like the sheep, but obeyed because she was taught to, and wished to please her mistress.

“I… I am so sorry…” Belle told Wolfe, plopping down on the grass next to him. The ram sighed, laying down on all fours to rest his head on her lap. She choked back a sob as she pet his head, fingers brushing against his horns. “How did you deal with all this? Gods, I treated you like an animal. All of you.”

Wolfe lifted his muzzle, watching her curiously. He flicks his ears and baas, tilting his head to better look at her. “Have you been a sheep long?”

Wolfe nodded.

Belle wept.

~.~.~.~.~

 

Rumple came back close to sunset. 

Rose was growling as she stood by Belle’s side, watching the satyr approach them from the forest, leaping over the fence in one jump. The shepherdess patted her dog’s head. “It’s okay, Rose.”

Buck ears quirked in an attentive manner, the satyr strides towards them sedately, arms crossed behind his back. Tonight, he was wearing his brocade coat. Belle felt herself soften at that. Rumple was seemed less intimidating in this coat. Then again, she could see his loincloth, and glimpses of his bare, tanned hips. What did he look like under the loincloth? Flushing, Belle shooed the thought from her mind. 

In Belle’s arms was Emma. She was so young, so tiny against her bosom. Clutching the satyr-girl tighter, she watches Rumple come close.

“Lovely. The shepherdess and her weest one.”

Belle bowed her head. “Rumple.”

“Lassie,” he says, coming closer, enough so that she could feel his warmth. “This is for the best.”

“I know,” she says, hugging Emma. Emma mewled and buried her face in Belle’s russet hair. “She’s just…”

“How long have you had Snow and Charming? And the two pregnant sheep?”

The question threw Belle off. Yet she answers as best she can. “I got Charming eight moons ago, Snow seven moons. Alice and Hatter came a year ago, and Ella and Princely around the same time.”

“Mhmmm, I see…” Rumple shook his head. Holding his arms out, he gestures for Belle’s charge. “Come. It’s time for us to go.”

Snow and Charming whined, rubbing themselves against Belle’s legs desperately, yet did not try to attack the satyr as the shepherdess tentatively transferred her load to the other. Emma sniffed curiously and grappled onto the Meddler’s torso, her tiny hooves and legs twitching for stability. 

“Please, Rumple,” Belle pleaded, taking hold of the satyr’s arms. “Take care of her. Not just experiment.”

The parent sheep baaed in horror. Rumple waved a hand in dismissal. “Fret no, my nymph. Emma’ll be as guid as mine.” He patted the toddler’s rump as emphasis. “I’ll be back soon.” The satyr knitted his brows. As an afterthought, he looked down at the two sheep beside her. “She’s in guid hands, Yer Highness.”

Highness?

Snow baaed and bobbed her head, stopping a hoof to the ground. Charming nuzzled her, but kept his watchful eyes on the satyr. 

“Call me if there’s more trouble,” her friend said, nodding. The sky darkened and shadows formed into darkness around them. “More sheep w’ll come.”

“And what, do I just go with it?”

“Fir now,” Rumple says. “Dinnae confront the Queen. I am working on a… cure.”

“A cure? But didn’t you make this… curse?”

The satyr groaned, bouncing Emma up to hold her better. “I sell my potions when people pay the right price. I sold Regina one. She must’ve made more of it.”

Belle took that with relief. “Alright. Okay. Go, then. I don’t think I can handle—“ she trembled. “I love Emma. I love them all. I know it’s wrong, now, but they—“

“Ye’ care for them, dearie. It’s natural.”

She held back a gasp. Squeezing Rumple’s arms one last time, she lets go and steps back. Belle felt like her own baby was being given away. “Go, then.”

“Goodbye, shepherdess.”

“Goodbye… satyr.”

He quirks a smile, flourishes a hand out, and in a puff of deep purple smoke, vanishes before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: Emma is situated into a new life, and Regina visits Belle with more sheeple in tow!


End file.
